


The Swiftest Course

by nirejseki



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Tortall, Fusion with Tortall/The Lioness Quartet, Gods, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-11-30 21:39:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11472216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: Barry of Allen is on his way to the capital of Tortall for the final part of his knight training, hiding a secret that could threaten his career there. He's determined to keep his head down and not get into trouble.He isn't expecting to meet Len, Corus' Rogue, or his right-hand man, Mick. Or meet Princess Iris and his new friends, Cisco and Caitlin.Hecertainlywasn't expecting to be roped into adventure.(It's the Gods' fault, really.)





	1. In Which We Meet Our Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> For joyous-lee, who purchased one of my stories for the FandomTrumpsHate event. She requested a Tortall AU, with Barry as Alanna. Thank you so much for your patience, and I hope you enjoy it!

There were three of them, and they were arguing.

One said, “We have reached a crossroad of fate once more. I have selected a champion to stand up for this country: a boy with a strong heart, a boy with faith and trust and love –”

“And what’s that going to get you?” cackled the second one. “A dead boy, that’s what! Lured to his death by a smile and a wink, I’m sure – no, for the country to be saved, we'll need stronger medicine than _that_ , m’dear, and I’ve found myself a demigod, with power aplenty –”

The third rolled his eyes but remained silent – though perhaps with the hint of a smile. 

“I will not send my champion unaided,” the first said coldly. “I will grant him great gifts to aid him – the swiftness of my heels, the strength of the great lightning –”

“Oh, well, that’s going to do it, I’m sure,” the second snapped. “My demi-god has power enough in himself and needs no more; I’ll send him an ally and advisor to catch him should things go ill –”

The third one makes a face that scarcely hides the amusement beneath.

“It is _my_ boy that will save them,” the first one argued.

“It is _my_ boy that will save them,” the second one claimed.

“I’m going to choose myself a champion,” the third one put in abruptly. “And _he’ll_ be the one to save the world.”

The first two turned to stare at him in disbelief.

“You?” they chorused. “Don’t be absurd.”

“I’ll wager you on it,” the third one said, crossing his arms.

“I’ll take that bet,” the second one snapped.

“As will I,” murmured the first. “How could any chosen of yours ever compare to ours?”

“Oh, you'll see. I’ll find someone,” the third says with a smirk, “someone with cleverness, and wit, and luck – and I’ll have him win over both of _your_ boys, and use _them_ to save the country!”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Len yawns and rolls out of bed before he’s even entirely awake, because you never know when someone is going to be trying to stab you.

Not that it would help him all that much. His bed has far finer protections than Len's clumsy maneuvers: Mick possesses that amazing ability to fall asleep at the drop of a hat and stay asleep no matter how loud it is, but also to wake up fully and totally the second he’s actually needed.

Unless, of course, he’s aware that they’re both perfectly safe, in which case he’s as unmoveable as a stone. 

Like, say, now.

“Get up,” Len calls over his shoulder, making a beeline towards the coffee and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. 

Mick grumbles and curses Len’s parentage on his father’s side.

Len has no objections.

Still, by the time Len’s finished his coffee and gotten ready – washed up, clothing on, knives packed away and ready to be pulled out for convenient stabbing – Mick’s waiting for him by the door, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and Len wants to punch him because the coffee hasn’t kicked in yet. Accursed Carthaki import and its beguiling properties. Who was it that first let the merchants bring it in, anyway?

“C’mon, Lenny,” Mick says, opening the door for him. “We’ve got a nice, full day of stealing shit ahead of us. Can’t be late to work.”

Len can’t help but crack a smile. “You think you’re so funny,” he says, aiming for sarcasm but mostly coming out fond. Deciding to take Mick on as a partner was the best decision of his life to date. Back when they'd met, Mick – just a kid, back then, not the looming giant he’d grown into – was hanging around the city gates like he wasn’t sure if he should come in or not, but not gawking like most of the other country folk coming to the capital were. 

Len has what is widely considered the world’s crappiest version of the Sight, which helps him identify things that will be relevant to him without any context (Enemy? Lover? Best friend? Person who will one day murder him?). He doesn’t get any of the _useful_ versions, like lie-spotting or poison-detection, oh no, he just gets a _feeling_. Back then, he hadn’t even recognized that it _was_ the Sight, just a tendency for hunches that served him well, but he’d taken one look at Mick with his cheap wool clothing and the boots that were falling apart on his feet and bee-lined over to make Mick’s acquaintance.

Turned out that Mick had _walked_ all the way to Corus from who-knows-where he lived, which is just plain old ridiculous, and Len told him so, then bought him lunch with the wallet he’d just lifted.

Mick hasn’t left his side since.

Mick just smirks back. “Nah,” he says. “I ain’t funny, but you’re easy to please. Now get your ass moving, the Dancing Dove isn’t going to open itself, and the gangs are gonna want to know their boundary lines for the week.”

“I should have thought about all the administrative work before becoming the Rogue,” Len pretends to whine. “Never would’ve taken it on if I’d thought about it.”

“Sure, you would’ve,” Mick says peaceably. “You killed that man because of what he was doing to lil’ Sammy and you didn’t care or know who he was, and you were damn surprised when someone told you that you were the Rogue now.”

“Pity the only way to quit is to _die_ …”

They’re about halfway to the Dove when Len runs straight into someone.

Unintentionally, for once; he’s so surprised by it that he doesn’t even lift the guy’s wallet. 

“Sorry!” the kid chirps. He’s wearing some decent hose, but he’s got that wide-eyed "holy shit the city" look in his eyes – backcountry nobility of some sort, if Len’s got to guess. “Really sorry. I’m just – not the best with looking where I’m going. Which I’m going to have to work on. Plus directions. God, directions. Uh. Do you happen to know where the courts are?”

Asking for directions is a city-born’s one true weakness, the magic spell that causes every single one of them to stop whatever business they’re on and answer.

“Sure thing,” Len says, as susceptible as the rest of his kindred. “But which court are you looking for?”

“There’s more than one?”

Len laughs. “Yeah, kid,” he says. “There’s the courthouse, where the lawmen sit; the court proper, where you’ll find the king and his court; the court-adjacent, where they train the knights; and the court-university, where they train the Gifted. They’re all called the Courts.”

“And those are just the official courts,” Mick offers. “There are also the tennis courts, and the gaming courts –”

“Court Theatre,” Len says, smirking.

“Oh, _man_ ,” the kid groans, but he’s grinning, his eyes sparkling with enjoyment. “I’m going to get so lost, I can just tell! I need the one where the knights train.”

Len points him in the right direction. “Okay, so listen closely,” he instructs. “You go straight down this street to the big fountain, cut off left to the small street with all the curtains – you can’t miss it – go down the hill until you see the steps, next to the tavern with the horrifyingly red rooster on it – you _really_ can’t miss that.”

“Street, fountain, left, hill,” the kid nods.

“You go up the steps until you hit the place with all the colorful houses – one of the nicest parts of the city, actually, can you believe that they’d been planning on mowing it down to make a big boulevard like they did with the center of town?”

“Rogue of that time stopped the bastards,” Mick agrees. “Good on him. We’d have lost three full neighborhoods to that nonsense. Who needs open roads in the middle of a city?”

“Tourists, that’s who, but we don’t run this city for ‘em. Anyway, once you see all the colorful houses, keep going straight until you get to the park. All the trees and whatnot. Right by the trees, there’s the first of said big boulevards in the middle of the way. Just plopped right into the middle of it all, tearing down perfectly good houses – it doesn’t fit at all with the rest of the area, so you really –”

“Can’t miss it?” the kid asks, because he’s apparently a bit of a smart ass. “Got it. Thanks!”

“Happy to help,” Len says, and then, entirely without his volition, says, “If you want someone to show you the city, you can find me anytime at the Dancing Dove – it’s an inn down four streets west of here, on Nipcopper Road. Have someone direct you there. Just come by any time.”

“I will!” the kid says, smiling right at Len. He’s got bright brown eyes, a mop of brown hair and a cheerful expression, and he’s basically the exact opposite of the sort of person that Len ought to be inviting down to the Dove. “My name’s Barry of Allen – well, it’s Bartholomew, technically, but who in their right mind would want to go by _Bartholomew_ – uh, unless that’s your name –”

“Leonard,” Len says. “Call me Len – it’s better than Leonard – and this here’s Mick. Just ask for one of us by name.”

“I will! Thanks!”

With a wave, the kid disappears into the crowd.

“That was awful nice of you,” Mick observes, giving Len a slightly confused expression.

“Yeah,” Len says, blinking a little. “Awful nice.”

“Sight telling you he’ll be important?”

“I guess,” Len says, shrugging. “Could be just a whim. Whatever; if he’s headed for the court-adjacent, he’s to be a knight, and he’s not going to have time to come visit us anytime soon, so it’s not like it matters.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Mick says, rolling his eyes and pulling a cheap fire-stone out of his pocket, the sort that are enchanted to light up in flame when you trace the rune on them – they’re mostly sold to help women start their kitchen fires, products of the university’s Gifted practicing their craft, but Mick’s always had a liking for them.

Then again, he likes anything when it comes to fire.

Len shakes his head and starts up again, nimbly avoiding the crowd. “You feeling hot tonight?” he asks. “I could set up something to need burning.”

“Nah, not yet,” Mick says. “But if there was a heist coming up that needed a fire…”

“There will be,” Len says, putting the whole business with the stranger – with _Barry_ – out of his mind.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Barry’s pleased to find that the directions the handsome man in blue had given him were both accurate and easy to follow (he was definitely not lying about the horrific shade of red of that rooster, gods above) and Barry makes it to the Court – uh, the Knight’s Court – in no time. 

The court-adjacent, Len called it. 

Man, if Barry had known that Corus had such pretty people, he would have…done exactly what he had done and waited until he’d completed basic knighthood training at the local training center near home before coming to the city at age eighteen.

It hadn’t been easy. Barry wasn’t particularly strong, particularly agile, particularly…anything, honestly.

Well.

He _was_ fast.

But no one could ever know about that.

Barry sighs a little, remembering those terrible first few weeks when he was younger when it had first manifested, where he had to inch along because going faster than a crawl would result in a burst of super-speed, the experience of having to lie to his father for the first time, the agony of teaching himself how to slow back down…

If only the Gift didn’t automatically mean mandatory admittance to the mages university!

Apparently, back in Good King Jonathan and Queen Thayet’s day, you could be a knight _and_ Gifted, like the Lioness - but that was nearly two centuries ago. Tortall’s mage universities had just been founded, for that matter, as a place for people to go to refine their Gifts; that was before the Gift had started specializing. People’s Gifts – just one type each, nowadays, rather than all-purpose – manifested in puberty, a reflection of how incredibly _strong_ they were, and as soon as they manifested, they were shipped off to the City of the Gods for basic mage training, and mages weren’t allowed to become knights at _all_. Ever since Tortall had nearly been taken over in that awful war with the Magekiller that had decimated both their mages and their knights, knights were knights and mages were mages and that was that. 

No. Barry was heading to Corus to become a knight, and that was _final_. Even if it meant hiding his speed for the rest of his life. Seven years of knighthood training at home, and the final year of intensive training in the capital, then appointment to the right position, maybe make a few good alliances with people who could stand up for him – then, and only then, would Barry consider revealing himself. 

Honestly, Barry’s just happy that he hadn’t been shipped off to learn basic training in Corus the way it used to be when there were only a few dozen knights each year instead of an army of several thousands. He’d never have been able to hide it, and then zip, over to the City of the Gods he'd have gone. 

But he decided very young that he was going to be a knight because as a knight, he gets to go to live in Corus.

He knows it’s a childish reason, but – he misses his mom.

Oh, sure, she writes often, every two weeks like clockwork. She visits once a season, if she can. 

But the life of the King’s Spymaster isn’t an easy one – it’s not just spying but also diplomacy and foreign policy, and that means living in Corus. And though she loves her husband, Henry of Allen, very dearly, and her son no less dearly, that means she can’t live with them. 

If Barry went to the City of Gods, he wouldn’t have even seen her the few seasons she went home. Mage training takes a lot longer than knighthood training: he wouldn’t have been sent to Corus, if ever, until he was halfway through his twenties, and that was assuming he was good enough to get into the mage university of Corus, the finest of the mage universities in all the land. 

No, Barry’s going to become a knight, and make his family proud that way. Not as a Gifted mage, locked away in some room with a pile of books.

But first he needs to survive _becoming_ a knight. 

Correction: first he needs to find the right room and _not be late_.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

He’s late.

“I am _so_ sorry,” Barry says apologetically.

The man in black at the head of the room sniffs. “I hope you won’t be making this a habit, Allen,” he says, and sweeps out.

“Did I miss the entire introduction?” Barry asks a pretty black girl plaintively.

She snickers. “Don’t mind old Darhk,” she says. “He’s the head of the mage university at Corus; he comes in just to sneer at us at the start of it.”

“Do we even do anything with the mage university? I thought it was a pretty strict segregation.”

“It is! The only thing we learn is magic theory so we know enough to recognize a problem on patrol, so we can call in a mage of the appropriate level to deal with it,” she says confidently.

“I guess they got tired of getting reports that said, ‘there’s a magic thingy, I think’ and it turns out to be swamp gas,” a boy about Barry’s age puts in. He’s short, with dark skin – though not as dark as the girl’s – and long dark hair that falls to his shoulders. 

A third girl, sitting next to the boy, laughs. She’s pale and blond. “That happened in my district once,” she says, smiling a little, though she still seems nervous. “The magic thingy turned out to be a bullfrog.”

“That’s even _better_ ,” the boy exclaims. 

Barry shakes his head. “I’m Barry of Allen,” he says. “You’re all here for knighthood training, right?”

“Yep,” the boy says. “I’m Cisco. Uh, short for Francisco. I’m one of the Ramons, from the coast.”

“Caitlin Snow,” the blonde girl says. 

“Oh, are you from near the Scanran states?” the black girl asks.

Caitlin laughs. “What gave it away?” she jokes. “The blond or the name?”

“What’s your name?” Barry asks the black girl.

Cisco makes a small choking noise.

“What?” Barry asks, blinking.

“Ignore him,” the girl says, but she’s grinning. “It’s just been a while since anyone’s asked, that’s all. My name’s Iris.”

“Oh, cool,” Barry says. “Like the princess.”

“Uh, Barry,” Caitlin says. “This _is_ the princess.”

Barry blinks, then twists to stare at her. “You _are_?”

She grins. “Yep. And I’m in your class, too.”

“Huh. Wow. Cool. Well, it’s nice to meet you. Is that why you know so much about how the training works?”

Iris starts laughing. “I like you,” she says, lightly punching his arm. “You didn’t make one stupid princess joke _or_ start being all weird.”

Barry shrugs, grinning a bit. “My mom’s a courtier,” he tells her. “I ask her about court and she just goes on and on about how state dinners are the worst thing in existence, and everyone still has to attend them, so I think the shine’s sort of worn off.”

“They _are_ the worst things in existence,” Iris says. “No lie. Which one’s your mom?”

“Nora of Allen –”

“The spymaster?” Cisco says, delighted.

“She’s _awesome_ ,” Iris gushes. “Like, amazing.”

“Yeah,” Barry says, beaming. “I know, right? I’m going to go see her when the introductory week is over; she’s out on tour till then. Well, I’m hoping to, anyway. I hope I didn’t miss anything important by being late today…”

“You definitely should,” Iris says. “And you didn’t; nothing’s happened yet. Besides, I can tell you most of what you’re going to hear, anyway; the knights division is run by a three-part system. Lord Wells is the overall head of the knights, but he's mostly involved in court stuff, or when we go to war. Captain Singh, the Lord Provost, manages the local patrols, inner-city and city vicinity, and that includes both the regular Guard and the knights that are assigned to the area. Lord Merlyn leads the outside patrols - missions to other countries, more unfamiliar areas, that sort of thing. His strike forces are very prestigious, since there’s so few chosen." She sighs. “Unfortunately, the system’s a bit lopsided at present – Singh’s internal patrols don’t have enough recruits, because Wells and Merlyn take them to the border, and as a result there’s more and more reliance on the informal patrols of the Rogue, and the quality of that can change rapidly, to say the least. It’d be better if we had more knights here in Corus.”

"Can't you do something?" Cisco asks. "If you're, well, the princess?"

Iris sighs. "My dad doesn't exactly listen to me," she says wryly. "He gave me the silent treatment for a month when I explained that I was going for my knighthood for real instead of just using all that training for self-defense I'll never use."

"Ouch," Caitlin says sympathetically. Barry can't even imagine his dad refusing to talk to him; usually, his dad is all about talking issues out for _ungodly_ lengths of time. 

"But our classes will be split between physical training - much more intense than what we're used to, or so people tell me - and our studies. And just a teensy portion of free time to keep us from going totally spare.”

"Can't wait," Barry says enthusiastically.

They all look at him.

"What?" he asks, only a little defensively. "We're one step closer to fighting the good fight, helping people. That's why we're here, right?"

Smiles spread on all of their faces. "Yeah," Cisco says, sitting up straight in his chair. "Yeah, you're right about that."

There's an awful screech of metal on stone, making Barry's shoulders shoot up to his ears. He turn to see what it was.

A frankly massive man, not too much older than Barry but something like twice the width, has turn his seat around to face them.

"You're naive, squirt," he says. "That fairy tale bullshit's centuries out of date. What do you think you are, the next Lioness?" He laughs nastily.

"Oh, shut _up_ , Tony," Iris says. "Nobody asked for you input."

"No, I don't think I will," Tony says. "Not even for you, pretty princess." He blows a kiss at her.

Iris glares death at him and makes what even Barry can tell is a _very_ rude gesture.

Tony smirks and leans back in his chair, smug and confident. “Where you from, little lion cub? Trebond?” he asks Barry.

“I’m from Allen,” Barry says stiffly. “Not that it’s important.”

“Oh, sure it is,” Tony says. “Explains it all, really. Allen’s backwater country. Infested with desert rats, I hear.”

“What in the world is _wrong_ with you,” Iris snarls. “My dad and I are both Bazhir, you _asshole_! Your _king_ , let me remind you!”

“I didn’t say anything about the Bazhir,” Tony says smugly. “You did.”

Iris fumes.

“You used a well-known slur,” Barry says. “It’s not our job to prove what you meant; it was clear enough what you said. Even someone from the _backwater_ knows that.”

“Now listen here, you pipsqueak –”

There’s a loud throat-clearing from the front of the room and they all settle back into their seats, abashed.

"Don't worry," Tony hisses to Barry, and Barry _really_ doesn't like the mean but satisfied look on his face. "I'm sure we'll have an _opportunity_ to discuss it again soon."

Barry only has a day to wonder what Tony - apparently Tony Woodward, a courtier’s son - meant, since what he meant is that he'd volunteer to be Barry's partner in the physical training and then spend all day, every day, using his bulk and strength to beat Barry up and down the yard.

Great.


	2. The Dancing Dove

"I don't think I like that guy," Barry groans one evening a week later. Iris has smuggled some muscle pain relieving balm out of the infirmary for him and is rubbing it into his back while Cisco and Caitlin keep watch.

"Of course you don’t," Cisco says. "That's 'cause he's a dick."

"My dad says 'all knights go through something like this' and cites the Lioness and Keladry of Mindelan," Iris says, scowling. "Like that's not a reason _to_ change the system, rather than a reason to keep it the way it is."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not! That _creep_ deserves to get kicked out of the program, not - used as some sort of life lesson for the rest of us! Ugh, and he keeps trying to _flirt_ with me, which, _no_."

"Agreed," Caitlin says, nose wrinkling a little. "I've tried to explain to him that I have a boyfriend, but he just doesn't take the hint. He all but said that I was lying because I was _shy_ and _didn’t think I was pretty enough for him_!"

"Wow," Cisco says. "That's even more dickish than I'd thought."

“You’d think that because my dad goes ballistic at the thought of me dating anyone, ever, he’d have some issues with me being _sexually harassed_ , but _nooooo_ , apparently that’s just fodder for his argument that I wasn’t cut out to be a knight,” Iris says.

“Maybe it’s his way to try to encourage you?” Barry offers. “Since any idiot would be able to tell that telling you that you _can’t_ do something is a surefire way to get you to do it, I mean. Like, I’ve only known you for a week and…” he trails off. Iris is smiling. “No?”

“Nah,” she says. “My dad’s just blind about certain matters. God only knows what he’ll do when it comes time to marry me off for king and country.”

“I feel like the chances of us going to war with the relevant country when he finds out what happens on your wedding night are, like, 60%?” Cisco says. “And I’ve only been here _two_ weeks.”

Caitlin snickers. 

“He’s not that bad,” Iris says, shaking her head and grinning. “Well. Maybe just a little.”

“I’m surprised I haven’t seen him, actually,” Barry comments. “I would’ve thought, given that we’re so close to the courts…”

“He’s been out on same tour your mom’s on,” Iris says. “He’ll be coming back tonight, though, which is good. Mom misses him. Though I’m not sure if he’s coming back alone.”

“Oh?” Caitlin asks.

Iris shrugs. “Our neighbor to the north. The current Thawne, Eobard. He’s nice.”

“Thawne – wait, the whole big civil war thing? Where the reigning Thawne family was all but wiped out in that uprising?”

“Yeah – Eobard was some sort of cousin, but after the whole family died, he took over.”

“Seems fishy to me,” Barry says.

“No, no, he’s great. He comes by sometimes, teaches some classes in the mage university, some in the knights. He’s very nice."

"Being nice doesn't mean he didn't murder his family for power," Barry points out.

"Maybe you have to meet him to get it,” Iris says with a shrug. “He's really quite charismatic. And it's nice to have someone more interesting than Lord Merlyn around, so people stop talking about _him_ all the time."

"I guess," Barry says. He’s not really convinced, but then again, he hasn’t met the guy, so what does he know? Maybe he is just that nice. Though that’s not a word he would have previously thought Iris would use; most of hte time, she has a bard’s turn of phrase. "I'm really just looking forward to seeing my mom."

\-----

Turns out Thawne Eobard has indeed returned to Tortall with the king; in fact, they arrive sufficiently early that the instructors decide to give the students a special treat by bringing him in to teach the last class of the day.

Which they extend by an extra hour.

Barry hates _everybody_ involved.

He wants to see his mom already; is that so much to ask?!

Still, it'd be rude to rain on everybody else's parade, so Barry pulls out some papers and starts sneakily doing some of his homework instead of paying attention. Iris will catch him up on anything important, finishing his homework means more time to spend with Mom, and at any rate Barry’s never known these guest speakers to say anything that's actually on an exam. Usually it's just stories of their heroic deeds and stuff, meant to inspire you. 

Barry's all good in inspiration, thanks.

From Barry's brief glance up at the start of the class, Thawne Eobard is a pretty average-looking man, dirty blond and facile of face, and he favors a frankly horrific shade of yellow for his formal robes. He spends a lot of time playing with a yellow ring which sparkles a lot and makes Barry oddly queasy, so he focuses on his work instead.

He manages to get a lot done, since the class sits positively spellbound for the whole extra hour.

"That was great," Cisco says, eyes shining. "I see what you mean, Iris; he's really nice."

"I told you," she says, grinning.

"What was the lecture about?" Barry asks.

"Oh, you know," Caitlin says, which is rather unlike her usual precision of language. "His rule up in the north, allying between Bergen and Tortall, that sort of thing."

"And what'd he fill the other hour and a half with?" Barry asks skeptically.

"That was it, really. But he was very nice!"

Honestly, Barry doesn't even care what lecture he's missed. He just wants to see his mom.

"Catch up later?" he asks and walks carefully off when the others nod. 

Carefully, both because he's still sore, and because being excited could activate his powers, and no one could know about those.

He still makes it to his mom's quarters in record time.

He knocks.

“Come in!” a familiar voice calls.

Barry cracks open the door and slips in.

His mother is darting from one side of the room to the next, scowling at a pile of paper. “Sorry about the mess,” she says automatically. “How can I help –” she looks up.

Barry waves.

“ _Barry_!”

And she leaps up and she runs over and she wraps her arms around him and it’s everything he ever wanted. “Oh, Barry, Barry, my beautiful boy,” she says, over and over. “I knew you were coming to Corus – I didn’t realize that time of year had come already – oh, I’m so _happy_ to see you!”

“You too, Mom,” Barry says, and puts his face in her shoulder so she won’t see his tears.

Nora draws him down. “Tell me everything,” she instructs. “Who have you met so far? Have you made any friends? You’ve been here – oh, my, it’d be a week already, wouldn’t it?”

“You were out on tour,” Barry tells her, which earns him an eye-roll.

“Oh, that stupid tour,” she says. “Even less useful than normal years, and that’s saying something. Have you been out into the city yet?”

“Not except on the way in, no…”

“You should,” she says briskly. “Too many knights never venture out from the courts, and that’s a crime and a shame, that they don’t know the people they’ve sworn their lives to defend. But that’s for later. Tell me about your classes!”

Barry smiles, and does.

\------------------------------------------

“I’m just saying,” Len says, not for the first time. “I don’t know if it’s appropriate.”

“You’re the Rogue,” Mick says, utterly tranquil and as unmovable as a rock. “You don’t care about appropriate.”

“Appropriate _for_ the Rogue.”

“You’re the Rogue. You decide what’s appropriate.”

Len contemplates beating his head against the table. 

“I don’t suppose saying that _as_ the Rogue, I don’t think it’s appropriate to have a rat as a pet, would convince you?” he tries.

“I’m sure you’ll change your mind,” Mick replies. He’s still petting that stupid rat he found Mother Flame only knows where. 

“In here,” a cheery voice says, audible even from where Len’s sitting, bringing a blissful interruption to Len’s attempt to shift the unmoveable object that is Mick. 

Len looks up.

“Hey, it’s that kid,” Mick observes. “From last week.”

“Ten days ago,” Len corrects automatically, but indeed it is, and he’s brought friends.

Barry sees him and beams, coming over. “Len!” he says happily. “And Mick, too! It’s good to see you.”

“Hello, Barry,” Len says, unable to keep his lips from curling up. Mick just grunts, but Len can tell he’s pleased that Barry remembered him as well. Most people just focus on Len. 

“It’s my first day off,” Barry says proudly. “My mom – she’s at the court – she told me to make sure to go out, but I don’t know the city at all, so I thought I’d come see you.”

“And you brought friends, I see.”

“Well, yeah,” Barry says, utterly unselfconscious. “I told them I was going into the city, then Cisco said I was probably going to be kidnapped and sold into sex slavery and Caitlin told him he was stupid and you were probably just going to try to sell _me_ things until I didn’t have any money left and Iris started saying there were laws against that, so in the end it was easier to convince them that I wasn’t going to be murdered, robbed, or otherwise vanished by bringing them along. Besides, neither Cisco or Caitlin know the city all that well; they’re new, too.”

Len blinks. Those were a lot of words. “Right,” he drawls, for lack of anything better to say. “Well, why don’t you introduce me?”

“Right! Here – guys, come over here – here, this is Cisco – uh –”

“Francisco Ramon,” the boy says. “But no one calls me Francisco but my parents.”

“And this is Caitlin Snow,” Barry continues, nodding at the blonde girl. Then he turns to the last girl, who’s pushing back her cloak to reveal her face. “And this is –”

“Iris, Princess and Duchess of the Western March,” Len drawls. “Yes, Barry, I do live in Corus; I’ve seen her before.”

Iris shrugs. “It was worth a shot,” she says wistfully.

“Oh, I don’t _care_ ,” Len clarifies. “There’s only one King in the Dancing Dove, and he doesn’t wear a crown.”

If Len was expecting Iris to be annoyed, he’d be disappointed. Luckily, he wasn’t. Instead, her eyes light up. “This _is_ the Rogue’s Court,” she crows. “I knew it!”

“The Rogue’s Court?” Barry asks, blinking.

Len presses his lips together to keep from laughing. The kid’s adorable. 

Mick leans over and mutters into Len’s ear, “You can keep him if I can keep my rat.”

“ _Not the same_ ,” Len hisses back.

“- where the Rogue controls all the thieves of Corus, possibly of all of Tortall,” Iris is telling a spell-bound group. “They’re the representative of the poor of Tortall, the King of the streets, the poor man’s last resort. His job is to manage the crime in the city and kick the asses of the nobility if we start forgetting about the poor. So basically: totally awesome. This is where it all happens.”

“You’re going to be disappointed,” Len says, unable to keep a smirk off his face. 

“I am not!”

“Sure you are,” Len says. “I’m the Rogue.”

Iris eyes him suspiciously. “No way.”

“To my sorrow, yes.”

“ _Really_?”

“He killed the last one,” Mick says. “That means he’s in charge. No other competence test required.” He picks his rat up from the table onto his palm and tickles it under the chin. 

“Will you _please_ not do that?” Len says, closing his eyes. “At least not in front of visitors.”

“We’re making progress,” Mick tells the rat. “First he was saying I couldn’t keep you, then that you weren’t appropriate, and now we’re on specific to-dos.”

Len looks beseechingly at the group of grinning knights-to-be. “Tell him the Rogue’s terrifying second-in-command becomes notably _less_ terrifying if he’s got a pet rat he coos over.”

“I don’t know,” Barry says, hiding a smile. “I think he’s a very scary rat.”

“Traitor.”

“He’s adorable,” Iris declares, leaning forward to get a better look. “What did you name him?”

“Faithful,” Mick says.

Len gives him an incredulous look at the same time as the four others. He hadn’t heard that before, either. 

“ _Really_ , Mick?”

“That’s his name.”

“Like, um, Lady Alanna’s Faithful?” Cisco asks.

“Yep. That’s his namesake.”

“But the Lioness’s Faithful was a _cat_ …” Caitlin starts, but Iris shushes her.

“I think Faithful is a lovely name,” Iris says firmly. “Can I…?”

Mick holds out his hand.

“Aw, he’s really quite cute and…” her voice trails off. “Oh. Huh.”

“Oh, huh?” Barry asks.

“Purple eyes.”

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Len asks, leaning in, but no, she’s right. Purple eyes.

On a _rat_.

How utterly bizarre.

“Told you,” Mick says placidly. “Faithful.”

“…right,” Len sighs, dropping the question. He knows when it's just not worth fighting on an issue. 

That’s when there’s a loud clatter and the sound of shouting. The would-be knights all spin around – undoubtedly eager to go do justice or whatever it is that knights do – but Len can hear the voices and he knows what this is. 

He settles back in his chair.

Some of the bully boys drag in a tall blond man, dressed in a long black cloak designed to help with the rain. It’s clearly meant not to stand out and probably wouldn’t anywhere else in Tortall, but that by itself stands out plenty in Corus, where the Rogue controls the crime. 

“I’m telling you, I didn’t –” he’s protesting in a faintly accented voice, only to fall silent when they throw him to the floor at Len’s feet.

“This is the one,” one of the bully boys reports. Thugs and enforcers; Len doesn’t have to like them – and he doesn’t – but they’ve more or less formed their own union in support of the Rogue. His very own bodyguard corps, but one with its own interests, and one that’s helped more than a few Rogues go the wrong way down the road of succession. 

There’s a reason Len prefers Mick. Of course, that’s the same reasons the enforcers can’t stand him.

“You sure?” Len says, lacing his fingers together.

“What’s going on?” Barry asks.

“This man has been accused of stealing from his fellow thief,” Len drawls, eying the man. “Now, I don’t know how it is where you’re from, but here in Corus, we thieves follow a code of conduct. It keeps us out of getting into too much trouble with the Lord Provost, and it keeps peace among our ranks.”

He smiles sharply. “And we don’t appreciate people who break that code.”

“I didn’t,” the man says again. “I swear it.”

Mick snorts in disbelief. “Punish him and be done with it,” he says, stroking his rat with a gentle finger as the rat crawls over his knuckles. 

It _is_ oddly threatening, now that Len sees it in action. Dismissive and yet not soft.

“If he says he’s innocent, you have to prove he’s guilty,” Iris says.

Len gives her a look. “No,” he says slowly. “We really don’t. This is the _Rogue’s_ Court, not the lawman’s.”

“But then how will you know if you’re punishing the right person?” Barry asks. “Won’t it be worse if you get tricked?”

They’re not _wrong_ , but…

“We have three eyewitnesses that put him at the scene,” Len says. “Two more that say he was arguing with the man beforehand, and he was spending some pretty pennies the very next day – pennies he refuses to explain how he obtained.”

“I can’t,” the guy says wretchedly. “I would if I could, but I really can’t. I just woke up with the money in my pockets. But I didn’t take his money. I really didn’t.”

Iris crosses her arms. “Maybe he’s being framed.”

“Maybe he’s _lying_ ,” Len points out.

“I’m not letting you punish him just because you _think_ he’s guilty,” she says, bristling. “Not without some proof.”

Len and Mick exchange looks. They’d really only planned to give the guy a good tanning and set him on his way – standard for first-time offenses – but the guy was really sticking to his story.

And that cloak _was_ so very distinctive. Very easy to fake. 

Len sighs. 

“Mick,” he says. “You have three hours.”

Mick nods and gets up, slipping out the side door.

“He stays here, under watch,” Len tells the bully boys. “He so much as twitches towards the door or a weapon, put him down.”

The enforcers nod, pleased, and retreat to stand by the door.

“What’s going on?” Barry asks.

The man looks up, hope in his eyes. They’re very blue. 

“Mick’s going to look into the issue,” Len says. “If he comes back and says there’s not enough to convince him, you go free. If he says there is, you face the penalties you have coming, no more arguing.”

“That’s fine,” the guy says. “Thank you – I swear –”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Len says. “Really.”

He turns his eyes to Iris. They’ve gone a little starry-eyed. “Thank you for standing up for me, my lady,” he says. “You don’t know me – and yet –”

“I’m training to be a knight,” Iris says, but she’s smiling back at him. “Standing up for people – for _justice_ – well, it’s what I do.”

He catches her hand and presses his lips to her knuckles. “It doesn’t take away from what you’ve done for me,” he says. “If all the world followed your example, we’d be better off. Thank you. What may I call you?”

“…you can call me Iris,” she says after a moment, slight flush on her cheeks, pulling him up. “You know, like the princess. And enough of that. What’s your name?”

“Sorry,” he says, smiling a little bashfully. “I forgot myself. My friends call me Eddie.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says. “Won’t you sit with us? You’re not from here, are you?”

“No,” he says. “I’ve never been to Tortall before, actually; I worked with a caravan and they fired us not far from here, so I thought I’d come here.” He winces. “I’ve only been here two weeks.”

“And you’re already in trouble,” Iris says, shaking her head. 

Len rolls his eyes.

Barry notices him and grins, leaning forward. “They’re a bit much, aren’t they?” he whispers.

“Just a bit,” Len murmurs back. “He is new, though – you catch how his eyes didn’t even blink when she said her name?”

“What about it?”

“He doesn’t know who she is, and she knows it.”

“I’ll tell Cisco and Caitlin not to say,” Barry replies, eyes dancing with mischief.

“You do that. No need to spoil her fun.”

They fall to talking, since Len’s not going anywhere until Mick’s finished his investigation. It turns out Barry has some problems with a boy up in the castle – some jerk named Tony Woodward who’s apparently as massive as an oak tree and has taken a distinct dislike to Barry – and his friends have all sorts of suggestions on how to fix the issue. 

Iris spends most of her time talking with Eddie. They apparently share an interest in neo-revival poetry, with a particular emphasis on how notoriously terrible Good King Jonathan’s love poetry was.

“You want me and Mick to take care of it next time he goes out walking?” Len offers. “My grandmother was Bazhir; I don’t hold for any of that desert rat talk, not in my city.”

“No!” Barry says. “I couldn’t ask that of you. No. If you’re the Rogue, you’re nobody’s fists for hire.”

_Adorable._

He’ll have to ask Mick how serious he was about letting Len keep Barry. Especially if he gets Mick equal dibs…

Mother Flame curse it all, though; that means Len’ll have to accept the rat. 

“It wouldn’t be for hire if I’m doing it ‘cause I want to,” Len points out.

“Still no,” Barry says, but he’s smiling. “But actually – could you teach _me_ how to stop him? I have knight training, but so does he; I don’t know any tricks to beat someone the size of Tony. But you…”

Len raises his eyebrows. “What makes you think I know?”

“No way Mick would’ve let you get this far without teaching you how to stop him,” Barry says.

“Hey! Maybe _I_ taught _him_.”

“Did you?” Caitlin asks.

“…no,” Len concedes. “Mick’s the genius when it comes to punching people. I just run the Rogue, that’s all. Barely worth discussing in comparison. King of the Streets? Eh, whatever, pay it no mind – punching people’s where it’s at.”

They all laugh. 

“So can you do it?” Barry asks, looking eager. “If it’s not too much time…”

“I could see myself covering a few classes,” Len says.

“Caitlin and I can cover for you for chores if you teach us the tricks when you get back to the knight’s court, Barry,” Cisco offers. Caitlin nods in agreement. 

“That would be _great_ ,” Barry says. 

They end up talking logistics for the next hour until Mick shows up, a good hour and a half before Len’s deadline.

Everyone goes quiet for a second.

“He’s fine,” Mick says.

They break out into cheers.

Iris even grabs Eddie into a hug.

Len arches an eyebrow. Mick had been fairly convinced of Eddie’s guilt, and a hour and a half isn’t a lot of time to change your mind.

Mick shakes his head slightly.

They’ll discuss it later, then. That’s not promising – Len has been complaining recently about how strangely slow certain things have been going, and an incorrect identification with five witnesses means either a set-up or a conspiracy or both. 

Probably just people bellyaching about how Len’s not a proper Rogue again, but worth investigating. 

For the time being, Len turns to Eddie. “No hard feelings, yeah?” he says mildly. “But remember, if you intend to be a criminal in this city going into the future, you’ll obey the rules.”

Eddie smiles. 

He looks like a puppy, but not quite as much as Barry.

“I promise,” he says. He dips his head a little, looking a little shy. “I’ve actually never been a criminal before. I’m hoping to find a job.”

Trickster help him.

Len sighs. “How ‘bout this,” he says, mildly pained. “I’ll get you a job, if you promise to _not_ be a criminal. I got a feeling you’d be terrible at it. Give us all a bad rep.”

Iris is beaming so hard Len’s amazed her muscles haven’t seized up yet.

“Thank you,” Barry says, and smiles at him.

Len swallows. Barry's really pretty when he smiles like that. “Yeah, sure,” he says, aiming for dismissive. “Hey, Mick, I promised Barry here lessons in dirty fighting. You in?”

“Of course I’m in,” Mick says. “Are you crazy? I taught you everything you know.”

“You did _not_.”

“I _knew_ it!” Caitlin giggles.


	3. Welcome to the Jungle

"So you put the bastard in his place?" Len asks.

"Yeah! It was great," Barry replies, trying to flip Len over his hip.

It's cute that he thinks that'll work.

Len swipes Barry's legs out from under him and pins him. "Congrats. That must've been satisfying."

"You have no idea," Barry says effusively even as he struggles to escape. "Seeing Tony Woodward slink away after kicking his ass three times in a row - brilliant. He avoids us now. Which is good, since the trip's coming up next week."

He gives up and taps out. Len rolls off of him with a smirk and offers him a hand up, which Barry accepts. 

"One more for me," Len tells Mick, who's keeping score in a little red book. 

"I don't know why you guys keep count," Barry complains. "I'm never going to beat you."

"Hope is important," Len says. "Also, I'm teaching you all about the noble art of rubbing someone's face in it."

Barry snickers.

"What trip?" Mick asks.

"We're going to the rainforest," Barry says, unable to keep a rueful smile off his face.

"Ah, yes, the rainforest," Len says gleefully. "Old Queen Tallesin's folly."

"It true that she was trying to fix things?" Mick asks. He doesn't always know Tortall legends, being as he is from the middle of nowhere.

"Yep," Barry says. "She was trying to create a new stable ecology for the region or something like that, I think she was saying, but at any rate, she meant to do it by abusing the Dominion Jewel which, uh, didn't work. Legend has it that the Jewel went nuts, created the rainforest and the new southern ridge of mountains, and then leapt by itself into the Mouth of the Salamander."

"Which hadn't even existed before then," Len puts in. "She gave us our first active volcano, like losing the Dominion Jewel wasn't enough."

"And you're going _there_?" Mick asks Barry. He's got a strange look on his face.

"Yeah, it's the annual trip. We were going to go to the desert, but there's murmurs of unrest, so we're going to the rainforest instead. They're using all the hostels in the desert to host real knights, you see, and mages, too."

"Unrest?"

"Someone swears they've found the remnants of the crystal sword."

"The one that got, uh, _eaten_ when some mage tried a spell to pull it out of the Corus Gate some hundred years ago? That's absurd,” Len scoffs. “Why in the world would it be in the desert?"

"Well, you know, the crystal sword was originally found in the desert.”

“Yeah, but the Lioness' _Lightning_ was found in Olau, according to the legend, and you don’t get much further from the desert than Olau.”

“Well, yeah. But someone said something and then people started fighting - you know how people are about legends."

"True," Len concedes. "Sounds like a fun trip. Have fun."

"We're going," Mick says.

"We're _what_?" Len yelps. He knows Mick's serious tone. "No, we're not."

"Yes, we are." Mick's voice is pleasant, level, and utterly final.

"I'm the Rogue - I can't just leave Corus at the drop of a hat -"

"Barry's not leaving till next week," Mick points out. "It'll be a good test for your lieutenants. A much needed one. Hartley, Mardon and Shawna all need some independence to see how they'll do."

"Well, I guess..."

"Wait, are you guys serious?" Barry asks, brightening. "That's fantastic!"

He leaps straight at Len, enveloping him in an utterly unexpected hug, making Len topple backwards with a yelp.

"I'm counting that one as one of Barry's," Mick says, smirking.

Len makes a rude gesture in his direction.

Barry does him one better, though, scrambling up from where he's pinning Len to leap at Mick.

"I'm the score-keeper," Mick yelps. "No fair attacking the score-keeper!"

"It's affection, you dumbasses, not attacks!"

"Help, Len! He's got his paws all over me!" Mick wails melodramatically even as he wraps his arms back around Barry for a great bear hug. "Assault! Assault! Summon the Lord Provost! Rogue, I petition you! Help!"

Len is laughing way too hard to say anything snarky.

"I'm the one being assaulted!" Barry laughs. "Mithros, but you're strong."

"You should see me with fire," Mick says, putting Barry back down. "Now get you back to the court adjacent; Len and I need to pack and figure out travel plans."

"Sad but true," Len says, shaking his head as if it can clear the grin on his face. "We'll meet you there. You lot are staying in Castle Perilous, right?"

"It's so badly named," Barry replies, nodding. "That's a way to make someone feel safe, isn't it? Castle Perilous."

"I heard," Mick says solemnly, "that it got that name because it was built on a swamp."

"It was?"

"Oh, yes," Mick says. "See, the first version sank into the swamp. But that didn't stop them - they built a second, stronger one. Which also sank into the swamp. The third one burned down. Fourth one also sank. But the fifth one stayed up!"

Barry gapes at him. "That's _awful_!"

Mick starts laughing.

"Is any of that _true_?!" Barry exclaims.

"Given that we heard it in a comedic minstrel performance last week," Len says, biting his lip, "I'm going to say that I doubt it."

"You guys are assholes," Barry tells them, still smiling. "I'll go tell the others; they'll be delighted to hear. See you - huh, I guess if the trip's next week and you're coming, I guess I'll see you there."

"Guess you will," Len says.

\----

He waits until Barry's gone and down the street to turn to Mick. "Well?"

"What?"

"Why are we really going? You don't ask for pleasure trips, not like that."

Mick frowns. "You won't believe me."

That, in turn, makes Len frown. "Mick. You're my partner. Of course I believe you."

"I saw an image of a city hidden in the rainforest," Mick says. "In the fire."

"What fire? Mithros' fires, by his temple? One of the other gods?" Len hadn't known Mick even went to those. By and large, Mick is remarkably disdainful of the gods, even though by all accounts he'd grown up in the general religion. He doesn't even have Len's excuse of being born and raised a follower of Mother Flame, She and She Alone, a group that acknowledges the existence of the gods but maintains that they are mere children of the Mother and therefore to worship them is idolatrous. Not that they have anything _against_ the gods – they’d certainly say hello if they met them in the street or something – but they wouldn’t _worship_ them.

Though Len concedes he hasn't always been the best adherent. That restriction against pork - not to mention stealing...

There's a reason Len considers it worthwhile to swing by to greet the Trickster in his sacred spaces, even though he makes certain not to actually pray or anything. Friendly hello to an equal-born child of Mother Flame, albeit one that has the power to destroy Len in a heartbeat. 

"No," Mick says, reluctant. "Just - that fire. Last week."

Len searches his memory for any religious fires, tinted with vervain for foresight, but come up empty. And then it hits him. "Wait," he says. "The gambling den arson? The one you ended up in a fit over?"

"Yeah," Mick says guiltily. "Still sorry about that."

"I'm telling you, it's fine," Len says, not for the first time. "I know you've got a case of the firebug fits; s'why I always make sure you got company when you go debt-collecting with torches and why I make sure you always got something to burn. But - you _saw_ something?"

"I saw a city," Mick says. "In the rainforest. We need to be there, or else something bad'll happen."

"That ever happen before?"

"Twice," Mick says. He'd never mentioned that before. "Once before I came to Corus - it's why I came. I saw a new home here. S'why I walked all that way."

"And the second time? What'd you see then?"

"Faithful," Mick says, nodding at his rat, curled up happily in the little pen Len had built for him. "I knew just where to go to find him."

"Well," Len says after a long minute.

"They could be hallucinations," Mick adds hastily. "I know that that's a symptom of firebug fits sometimes, and I've got them before -"

"Only when you were very sick or depressed," Len points out. "Neither of which you are now. No, if you say you saw something, I guess you saw something. Guess we're going to the rainforest."

\-----------------------------------

It’s official.

Barry of Allen is the only person in all of Tortall that does not like Thawne Eobard.

No matter how many times Eobard smiles – greasily, in Barry’s opinion – or how everyone swears up and down that he’s really nice, Barry does not like him.

This puzzles the living daylights out of all of his friends.

Being forced to ride in formation, stuck _right next to_ Eobard’s horse, all the way down to the rainforest only made it worse.

Especially since Eobard spends the entire time talking with Iris about some sort of “hidden city” legend in the rainforest, talking about how exciting the concept is - how dangerous - how Good King Jonathan took on the Black City when he was far younger –

(Which he wasn’t, being very nearly a full knight and all, but everyone ignored it when Barry pointed it out. Also, is it just Barry, or is it weird to refer to Good King Jonathan in the singular? It’s always Good-King-Jonathan-and-Queen-Thayet. They ignore Barry about that, too.)

"Unfortunately," Eobard drawls in his nasal voice, far more jarring to Barry's ears than Len's more musical one. "It does seem that heroism of that sort is a thing of the past."

Barry sees Iris' eyes shining in excitement. "Maybe not," she says, sounding far too thoughtful.

"Maybe that's because individualistic heroism has been replaced with individuals committed to upholding institutional justice," Barry says, only slightly sourly. 

"How's that?" Caitlin asks, blinking. She's been strangely dazed during much of the trip, as had Cisco; Barry guesses they're not used to traveling like this.

"Individual heroism as in the days of Good King Jonathan and Queen Thayet – and the Lioness, of course - was all well and good if your goal was making a name for yourself and yourself alone," Barry points out. "But permitting justice to be dispensed by individuals and effectively only permitting training for the higher end nobility and nomads, since no one else could afford to lose a child's help in the days prior to the institution of mandatory childhood education, essentially created a system in which entire communities were at the mercy of their local knight's biases and whims. Which is why Good King Jonathan and Queen Thayet worked so hard to develop the current system where any goodman’s child can enter their local training for knighthood, with their families subsidized for the loss of their labor if they’re not landowners. That’s why we call them the ‘Good’ King and Queen, after all."

Iris is nodding eagerly, since this is one of her pet peeves. "Not to mention the utter failure of that system to encourage investigation into issues of structural inequality," she says. "We had knights; now we have enforcers of the law which are themselves subject to the law they enforce."

Thawne Eobard looks annoyed, albeit subtly. "I suppose so," he says. "But there is still a lack of great deeds now, wouldn't you say?"

He aims that question at Iris, who falters.

"Not to mention," he adds smoothly, "you can't overlook the great deeds they _did_ accomplish individually - Jonathan and the Banishment of the Black City, for instance, could not have happened with an army -"

"I personally think that Judge Samor in the 7th District counts as an individual hero," Barry chimes in, noticing with disgust how Iris, Caitlin and Cisco all turn to listen to Eobard adoringly whenever he speaks. He’s not _that_ impressive. "She's been working for the rights of bastard children for fifty years. She fought her way up from nothing to become one of the most respected judges in all of Tortall, which is nearly as helpful in getting rid of the stigma that bastards are useless as her active efforts. And look at how she led the way in equalizing the inheritance laws!"

"I thought her recent ideas about funding unwed mothers were a bit much," Caitlin objects. "Doesn't that undercut the institution of marriage at all?"

"That depends on the benefit of the institution," Cisco points out. "If we really wanted to strengthen marriage above all else, we'd eliminate divorce and trap people in them, but we don't do that because it's not our highest value -"

"Feeding children is more important," Iris adds, nodding.

"I may just be contrary here, but it seems to me that it's not just -" Caitlin starts.

The debate kicks into high gear after that.

Barry's pretty sure he's the only one noticing Eobard's lips twisting in annoyance.

He still manages to bring up the stupid Black City legend three more times, despite Barry's best efforts to derail him.

There’s a lovely welcome feast by Julian Albert, the master of Castle Perilous, in which Albert talks at length about the local legends of gorillas in the rainforest, rumors of them having formed some sort of enclave, and the dangers of going in alone given their territoriality, but Barry goes to bed that evening still feeling unaccountably annoyed. He's not sure why he's so annoyed, he just knows that he is.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out.

"Okay," he mutters into his pillow. "Let's talk it out like Mom and Dad are always saying. Why does it bug me that he's talking about it all the time? So he likes legends; it's not a crime."

Still, doesn't Eobard realize how impulsive Iris can be? If he keeps goading her on like this, she'll do something -

Barry sits bolt upright in bed. 

"Stupid," he hisses, and _flashes_ into his clothing and down the stairs.

Even with the aid of the magic he'd sworn never to use, he barely makes it to the gate before Iris.

"Are you _nuts_?" he asks her.

Iris tosses the hood of her waterproof cloak back, scowling at him. "How'd you know I'd be here?" she asks.

"After Eobard practically _dared_ you to go to into the rainforest looking for a hidden city by comparing you to Good King Jonathan and Queen Thayet? Seemed obvious," Barry says, then amends it to, "Mostly obvious. I just figured it out."

"He didn't dare me," Iris says, rolling her eyes. "But he's not _wrong_ \- there's a great deed here, just waiting to happen!"

"No one has ever found a hidden city in the rainforest, Iris. It’s not like the Black City, which was actually _visible_.”

“I know!” she says, beaming. “But I’ve figured it out.”

Barry pauses. “You’ve figured out…what?”

“It’s the gorillas! Everyone has been everywhere in the rainforest except where it’s marked out as gorilla territory, because they’re so violent against intruders. That must be where the hidden city is!”

Barry gapes at her. “So your idea is to go straight to the place with the violent territorial gorillas? Really?”

Iris crosses her arms. “You can come with me or not, Barry, but I’m going.”

Barry bits his lip. Iris seems dead-set on the idea, and he knows her well enough by now to know that nothing he says will change her mind. She’s going to go into that rainforest, with him or without him, and she won’t let him go back and get anyone from the Castle –

Huh. That’s an idea.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m coming. But can we make a detour?”

She scowls at him, suspecting a trick.

“No, no,” Barry says. “We’re definitely going into the rainforest. It’s just – we have to pass through the city proper before we get to the gates, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“I promised I’d meet Len and Mick –” Tomorrow or the day after, technically, but they did tell him where they’d be staying. “– so we should swing by in case they get annoyed about me ditching them after they came all this way to hang out with us here.”

Iris frowns. “Fine,” she says. “But if you try to get them to stop me, I’ll never forgive you.”

Damnit.

They steal into the city proper and head down to the Monkey’s Paw, which is a disreputable-looking tavern in the poorer part of town, and which is surrounded by plenty of big, angry-looking people eying Barry and Iris’ expensive cloaks.

“Uh,” Barry says. “I’m here to see the Rogue?”

The thugs exchange glances, but finally one of them gets up and gestures for Barry and Iris to follow. 

Len and Mick are seated in the middle of a positive sea of shining criminal faces, Len weaving one of his ridiculous-yet-true stories about heists he’s run with Mick interjecting additional details, some of which might even be true. 

“Rogue,” the thug grunts. “Guests.”

Len looks up. “Barry,” he says warmly. “And you brought your friend, too. Do you have news for me?”

Barry blinks, not sure what Len means, but Iris steps up right away, saying, “News from the Castle, Rogue, and the special information you wanted.”

“You’re planning to job old Perilous?” one of the local thieves asks, sounding impressed.

Len shrugs. “I ain’t committing to nothing till I got all the intel I need,” he says archly. “Sorry, boys; gonna have to continue this story later. Need to talk to my, ah, _friends_ from the Castle.”

There are murmurs of agreement and approval, and the crowd splits to let Len and Mick walk through to Barry and Iris, catching them easily by the arm and leading them to another room.

“Mick?” Len says.

Mick holds up a secret-sphere, activating it with a click. “It’ll muffle the sound, but not for long,” he warns.

“Being a Rogue spy in the Castle is a dream come true,” Iris says.

Barry sighs. “Was that necessary?” He does think it’s pretty cool, though, so he’s maybe not managing "put upon" as well as he could. 

“This ain't Corus,” Len replies dryly. “Been a while since these people have seen - or had to respect- the Rogue. Enough of that, though. What’s up? You’re early.”

“Iris wants to go hunting for the hidden city in the rainforest,” Barry says. “Tonight. Alone.”

Len and Mick exchange a look. “City in the forest, huh?” Len says. “Okay, we’re in.”

“What?!” Barry yelps.

“Yes!” Iris cheers.

“Do you know where it _is_?” Len asks.

“I have my suspicions,” Iris says, and grins. “And a map.”

“You have a _map_?” Barry asks. She didn’t mention a _map_.

“Yep,” she says. “Got it from Julian Albert myself. He’s really into the whole gorilla thing.”

“So we’re really going,” Barry says.

“We’re really going,” Iris says.

“At least we’ve made a decision,” Len says dryly.

\------------------------------------------

"It's official," Barry mutters. "I hate the jungle."

"Rainforest, Barry," Len replies, though he seems equally displeased by trudging through miles and miles of identical forest in the dark, their way lit only by the mage-light of their lanterns.

"What's the difference?"

"Rainforest has a thick canopy of trees, blocks the light," Mick grunts. "Jungle's thick on ground vegetation."

"I didn't know that," Iris observes. "Where'd you pick it up?"

"Mick knows everything," Len drawls, but he sounds pleased. Barry knows Len well enough to know that it's from Iris not having expressed surprise at Mick having brains as well as brawn. "He's - what's that word again? Starts with an o, means know-it-all?"

Iris blinks, baffled, and exchanges glances with Barry.

O word, o word, know-it-all, all-knowing...

"Wait," Barry says. " _Omniscient_?"

"That's the one," Len says cheerfully. "He's a bit slow to get to it sometimes, but ask him a question and he knows the answer."

"You have great faith in your friend," Iris says. The smile is evident in her voice. "To which I owe the life of my own friend, so I suppose I must believe you." 

Len chuckles. "And how has Eddie been treating you?"

"He hasn't been 'treating' me anyhow; we're just friends -"

" _Friends_ don't make out in Sweetheart Lane," Len shoots back with a smirk. 

"Iris!" Barry exclaims, delighted.

"Gimme a break!" Iris shoots back, grinning shamelessly. “He's adorable!”

"Yes, adorable - and new to the city, too, which means _you_ took him to Sweetheart Lane," Barry says, smirking. “For shame, Iris. Corrupting nice young men like that.”

"I remind you, Barry, that I am also your princess."

"Not in the rainforest you're not," Mick says. “Nobody to enforce your rules.”

"I'll tease you later," Barry tells Iris, earning a laugh. "All the time. Endlessly. You'll beg me to stop."

"I'll live," she replies. "Now, Len, tell us what you mean by Mick being omniscient. You mean he's terribly clever and people don't realize it, right?"

Mick snorts and Len laughs. "If I meant that," he says, "I would say it."

"Then what do you mean? You can't mean that he actually knows _everything_."

"Well, no. But he can answer any question he puts his mind to," Len explains, no trace of doubt in his voice. "It just takes time, that's all. I asked him a question once and he answered me near on two years later; he's lucky I even remembered what he was talking about."

"So he can answer anything, but slow? What if I asked about the meaning of life?" Iris teases.

"I could tell you," Mick says, and he sounds amused. "But sadly by the time I got the answer, you'd already be dead - and have your answer."

Iris laughs. "Well, that’s convenient. Wouldn't you say, Barry?"

"A little," Barry says, smiling. "Hardly the strangest thing I've ever heard of. Is it always slow?"

"Nah, sometimes it's quick as a wink," Len says. "Not often, though; I prefer the slow approach, myself."

"Of course you do." Barry rolls his eyes. 

"Try him!"

"And if he doesn't answer, wait a few years?"

"Well, don't ask him anything too complex, then."

"But that's all the fun," Iris says, shaking her head.

"Oh, I've got one," Barry says. "Mick."

Mick raises his eyebrows.

"Where should I go to find what I'm looking for?" 

Barry's quite pleased with his question; it's abstract enough for a good answer, but it sounds to him, at least, like an excellent request for directions to the hidden city, which they could then trace on the map that Iris has been consulting regularly but hasn't shown around. They can use that as a test.

Mick blinks. "Oh, that," he says dismissively. "That's easy."

"It is?" Barry replies, blinking a little.

"It's in the base of that big tree down that hill," Mick says. “It'll put you on the right path to what you’re looking for."

Len squints down the hill, enhancing his mage-light. "I don't think I see a tree, Mick," he says. "The hill cuts off in a cliff-face or something like -" He abruptly goes silent.

"Len?" Barry asks.

"That’s a _tree_ ," Len says.

Barry steps forward and looks. "Oh, wow," he says. The tree is gigantic, old and gnarled, with its branches twining up into the canopy, but its base is frankly massive. You could fit a house inside that trunk. 

Barry steps forward again, eager to get a better look, and that's when the ground gives way beneath him and suddenly he's sliding down the hill.

"Barry!" he hears his friend shout as he bumps and rolls his way down the hill, instinctively throwing his arms up to protect his face and focusing on letting his body be limp and soft, falling the way you're supposed to fall.

Thank the Goddess for knight lessons, he supposes.

It's probably due to that that he makes it to the bottom of the hill without anything more than a few bruises and scrapes.

The bottom of the hill –

The tree is just as massive as Barry thought, but it's only up close that he sees the intricate carvings on it.

"Oh, wow," he breathes again, ignoring the sound of his friends edging down the hill in his direction.

He'd thought you could fit a house in here, and it looks like someone had had the same thought, decorating the place all over.

And more importantly, these aren't _just_ carvings.

"It's a door!" Barry calls, and presses his palm against what looked like the door handle. "Guys, it's a -"

The wall creaks open, pulling back with an ancient groan and taking Barry, who'd been unwisely leaning forward, toppling inside.

The floor is some distance further down than he would've thought it'd be. It's definitely lower than the ground outside, at any rate.

"Barry!" he hears Len shouting.

"Ouch," Barry says, sitting. He turns on his mage-light – which had turned off in his tumble, since he was no longer holding the activation rune against his skin - and sees...

Treasure. 

Not treasure as one would regularly think it, but gorgeous carvings of all sorts, pictures, sculptures. Violent figures everywhere, holding up their swords and shields and spears as if in defense.

Barry would have thought it a place of worship, but there's no altar, no religious imagery, no signs of dedication to any god. Just warriors, ready to fight.

Also, Barry is sitting on something that's poking him in the ass.

He fishes it out from under him, only to blink stupidly at it. 

It’s a sword. He can’t quite make out the details of it – mage-light is dim, better for seeing distances than details - but it is definitely a sword. And a scabbard and sword belt, for that matter, which is good because if Barry fell straight on a sword he'd be a lot less curious and a lot more bloody. 

Why is there a sword lying in the middle of this place?

"Hey, Barry," he hears Len drawl. "You feel you need more time in there, or you ready to come out?"

Barry looks up sheepishly. "I found a sword," he calls.

"A sword," Len says flatly. "How nice. I'm sure when I recover from the heart attack you gave me, I might even care."

"Oh, hush," Iris says, though Barry can tell from her voice that she's also relieved. "You know, Alanna the Lioness found her first sword on a quest like this."

"She found it amongst ruins," Len shoots back, unimpressed. “In Olau. _Hardly_ the middle of a rainforest.”

"These look like ruins! Or, well, they're ancient-looking, anyway..."

Mick appears behind the bickering duo with a length of vine, likely from a nearby tree. He tosses it down to Barry, who shoves the sword under his arm and climbs out.

"Thanks, Mick," he says when he gets up to the ground again, "for as usual being the only practical one of the whole lot of us."

Mick grunts in amusement as both Len and Iris immediately protest that they were _going_ to get rope, really, in just a moment.

"So you found a sword," Iris finally says when she realizes it's hopeless. "Like Lady Alanna's Lightning! Oh, this is even _more_ like the Quest of the Black City than I'd hoped!"

"I can't believe we're on a _quest_ ," Len grumbles, but his eyes are shining. He might not admit it, but the Rogue of Corus is as much of a storytelling fiend as Iris is; no wonder he agreed to this trip so easily.

Barry shrugs and buckles the sword on. It feels right. "Well, I _am_ going to be a knight," he points out. "So a sword obtained on a quest is definitely a step in the right direction. Thanks for the directions, Mick."

"I still don't believe it," Iris announces. "Pure coincidence, I say."

"You don't have to believe it," Len retorts.

"Which way, Iris?" Barry interrupts before they start arguing again.

Iris checks her map. "Oh, this way. Follow me. So, Barry, what are you naming it?"

“The sword?”

"You should name it ‘Pours’," Len says immediately.

"What?"

"You know - when it _rains_ -forest, it _pours_."

"That was awful,” Iris declares.

Mick nods, but he's quietly snickering. Barry is only snickering quietly because he has his hand over his mouth. "What?" he says when Iris gives him a long-suffering look. "It's funny!"

"Don't encourage him. Draw the sword, Barry; let’s see what it looks like.”

Barry does so. It’s lightweight and easy to hold, with a different metal of some sort running up the middle. “I like it,” he says. 

“I think you should call it Lightning,” Iris declares. 

"Like Lady Alanna?"

"Exactly!"

"I don't know. Seems like a name with a lot of weight..."

"Call it whatever you like," Len says. "It's only a pointy stick in the end."

That, of course, sets Iris off on a rant on the importance of swords and sword-bonding in the history of heroes, Len needling her every time she shows signs of flagging.

Mick nudges Barry a little. Barry looks at him. "Name it whatever you like," Mick says. "Don't worry about the weight of history; it's not as heavy as you might think."

 _This_ , Barry thinks to himself, unable to keep from smiling, _from a man who named his pet rat Faithful_.

Well, he supposes Mick knows best, then. 

"Lightning it is," Barry decides, sheathing it once more. He feels a bit better with a proper sword, since he had only been able to bring knives out with him on this trip - as trainee knights, they travelled armed, but put the swords away when visiting at a castle. 

Mick nods in approval. Barry feels warm inside.

"So, another question," Barry says to Mick, grinning to show he was joking. "You think we'll find the hidden city?"

"Sooner than we'd like," Mick says, but he's not looking at Barry.

Barry turns his head to look, and -

"Is that a giant statue of a gorilla?" he asks, amazed.

"It is!" Iris exclaims. "But what can it mean?"

"It means," a deep voice - inhumanly deep - says from behind them, "that you are trespassing."

They all spin around.

From the darkness outside the circle of their magelight, an enormous figure, larger and broader than any man, steps forward.

It's a gorilla.

No, not just a gorilla. It's a gorilla, standing like a man, its yellow eyes bright with intelligence, and it’s wearing armor. Filigreed silver armor, of a make and style Barry has never seen before.

It bares its fangs.

"Welcome," it says, "to Gorilla City."


	4. Gorilla City

The gorilla throws back its head and roars, beating its chest, and within moments they're surrounded by an entire squad of gorillas.

Barry can't help shooting Iris an incredulous look.

"Okay, yes," she hisses back. "This is a bit more Black City than I was hoping for. I didn't think it would be _inhabited_!"

"No one thought the Black City was inhabited _either_ -"

"Silence!" the gorilla booms.

They go quiet. When an eight foot tall gorilla tells you to shut up, you shut up.

They promptly get searched and disarmed, which is definitely an experience when done by a gorilla instead of a guard. Then the gorillas escort them past the giant gorilla statute, down a hidden path, and then -

"Oh, _wow_ ," Barry says, momentarily forgetting the chief gorilla's dictate to be quiet in his wonder at the city. Pyramids and palaces, treehouses and tunnels, all carved from orange stone and brick. A giant, massive hidden city. "It's amazing."

The gorilla escorting them - his silver armor is finer than the others he had summoned, who had a similarly filigreed steel version, leading Barry to think he's some sort of leader - sniffs, but he does seem somewhat mollified by Barry and Iris' open amazement. "It is a grand city indeed."

"The city in the fire?" Len murmurs nonsensically. 

"That's the one," Mick replies back, equally quietly. 

"You couldn't have mentioned the _gorillas_?!"

"It ain't a goddamn science, y'know."

Barry's not sure what they mean, but he's pretty sure now is not the time to ask.

"We didn't mean to trespass, you know," Iris tells the gorilla leader. "We just heard stories of a glorious city hidden here - stories that understate how amazing it really is -"

The gorilla puffs up with pride. "We built it ourselves," he boasts. "Rock by rock, brick by brick. It is all gorilla."

"Amazing!" Barry says. "I just - it's _amazing_! And the way it fits in with the jungle - er, rainforest - so that you almost can't see it if you're looking the wrong way, that's just brilliant."

The gorilla smiles. "It is not often we get to hear new perspectives on our city," he says agreeably. "It is a pity you must die."

"I'm not really up for the whole dying thing," Len drawls even as the rest of them rear back in horror. "Eventually, sure, but it ain't really my style."

"It is the fate of all trespassers," the gorilla says, almost apologetically.

"What, even by _accident_?" Iris asks, piqued. She puts her hands on her hips and glares. "That's awful! Surely the people who built a city like this would have an equally developed justice system!"

The gorilla frowns. "You will go before the kings," he decides after a moment's thought. "They will condemn you or pardon you; it will be for them to decide."

That decided, they all go further into the city, aiming for the giant palace in the middle. 

Barry notices Len palm their guide-and-jailer gorilla's side-pocket and tries not to groan. You can take the Rogue to the rainforest, but he's still the Rogue.

He's torn between hoping the gorilla doesn't notice, for fear its reaction would be to tear Len's arms off, and hoping Len got something good.

The gorilla doesn't notice, but Len looks annoyed as he comes away with empty hands. Nothing in there worth stealing, no doubt. 

Well, at least he didn't get caught. Though at least it's good to see what Len's definitely not down-and-out-of-ideas yet...

The palace's inside is a gargantuan arena, filled with open spaces, and the pit they are brought to is disturbingly reminiscent of a jousting pit, or one of the sort used to contain fighting animals. There’s a fairly large crowd of gorillas lining the edges of the pit, watching their two kings do business from the stage before the pit. 

On the stage, there are two thrones. Interestingly they are placed somewhat distantly from each other - Barry can see them both easily from where he is in the pit, but any closer and he'd have to swivel his head back and forth between the two kings. In between them, there’s a gigantic gong.

Barry assumes they're both kings, based on their guide's statement. They're both wearing the same filigreed armor as the other gorillas, though the one on the left is decked out in gold and steel while the other on the right has armor the color of ancient gold. 

"King Solovar," their guide announces, bowing to the one on the right. "King Grodd." He bows to the one of the left.

"What have you brought us?" Solovar asks, his voice deep and slow and solemn. He's paler than the other gorilla, his fur lighter in color, but he seems no less fierce.

"Humans who have wandered into our camp -"

"And why did you not execute them as trespassers immediately?" Grodd demands. His voice is deep, too, but harsher and louder. "You should have brought us their heads, not their persons."

"There has not been a human in Gorilla City in years," Solovar speaks before the guide has to answer. "You have done well, Timbu."

Their guide bows and retreats, leaving them alone before the kings, who have started arguing with each other.

Len hums a little, and exchanges glances with Iris and Barry, all of them perfectly in agreement: there is clearly a political feud between the two kings, with Grodd the more militant and Solovar more cautious and less inclined to violence, with them right in the middle. 

The only question, of course, is which one is going to win - and how their little quartet can help get to the result where they don't die.

Barry would very much like not to die.

" - the laws are clear!" Grodd is saying, fuming and growling as he speaks, white flecks appearing on his lips. "Trespassers are -"

"The laws are _old_ ," Solovar replies. He's keeping his calm better than Grodd. "And you yourself have tried many times to change them."

"To _attack_ the human settlement!" Grodd roars. "To drive this pestilence from our forest, once and for all."

Iris hisses at that, but unfortunately it comes in the echoing silence after Grodd's statement and catches his attention.

"You object, _human_?" he sneers. "You, who have conquered the rest of this earth for your own use?"

Iris straightens her back. "My name," she says coldly, "is Iris West, princess of Tortall. I will not be addressed as 'human' any more than I would address you as merely 'gorilla'."

Grodd laughs. "Oh, a princess," he says scornfully.

"This changes matters," Solovar says.

"It does not," Grodd snaps. "A human trespasser is a human trespasser, no matter what pretensions they may have."

"It is not pretension," Iris says. "I am the Princess of the humans who live in this country, for better or for worse; if you kill me, you will face the full wrath of the armies of Tortall, called forth by my father."

"You think so," Grodd scoffs. He leans forward, and his head is suddenly surrounded by some strange aura, a glowing gold. "Grodd does not think that will be so, human child - you may be princess, but you are here without the consent or support or even _knowledge_ of your precious father. You snuck out at night and stole a map from your host's desk table!"

Iris takes an abrupt step back.

"Oh, yes," Grodd snarls, sounding nastily pleased. "Grodd is gifted with the mind-power, to call forth your secrets." He looks at them all. "All of your secrets!"

Barry swallows as Grodd's gaze passes over him. He can't mean -

Grodd smiles meanly. "If you will not execute them," he tells Solovar. "I will!"

And he leaps to his feet, grabbing a pointed spear from beside his throne, and he pitches it, straight and true, right at Iris.

Barry doesn't think, he just _moves_.

A crackle of lightning, and Iris is safely by his side.

And then, only then, does Barry realize what he's just done.

He just -

His speed, his mage powers -

It’s the end of everything. He'd been trying so hard to keep his secret, and he didn't even make it past the first six months.

"Barry," Iris whispers. 

"You okay?" he asks, swallowing. He can’t deal with it now; they need to survive this, first.

"Barry," Iris repeats. "You're a _mage_."

Barry flinches.

"No, he's a _knight_ ," Len says sternly, and Barry feels a wash of relief at Len’s words, even though he knows Len well enough to know that Len’s already calculating how best to use this. At least one friend won’t change their mind about him because of this. "Mages and knights are separate worlds, Iris. Don't force him into the one he doesn't want."

Iris blinks. "Oh - oh! Yes, of course. Of course not. I won't tell a soul. Don't worry, Barry."

Mick nudges Barry's shoulder and nods.

Something unknots in Barry's chest and he exhales with relief, feeling warm.

His friends are the best. He never should have doubted them.

They still need to survive this, though, or else it's all a moot point. 

"You have defied Solovar," Solovar says. He's speaking to Grodd. "You have chosen to act before Solovar spoke; this is a violation of the law of two kings."

Grodd gnashes his teeth. "Then perhaps the law of the two kings should end," he roars. "You are old and overly cautious - Grodd would be king, king alone! And then something would get done!"

Solovar rises to his feet. He's slower than Grodd, older. There's a slight limp to his step. "Solovar, too, would wish for things to get done," he says, and turns his head to regard the crowd, raising his voice. "Let it be known: Solovar does not support Grodd's foolish, purposeless warmongering! Solovar has begun talks for a treaty with the humans of Castle Perilous!"

"That's why Julian knew so much about them," Iris murmurs.

Grodd roars in rage. "Ally with the weak, pathetic humans? Never! Grodd will fight Solovar for dominion first!"

"We will fight," Solovar agrees. He does not seem enthused by the idea, though Grodd does - it is clear Grodd has been aiming for just this result, likely for some time.

"Maybe we ought to have a say in this," Len interjects.

Both gorillas turn to stare at him. They'd clearly forgotten all about the humans.

"We're the cause of your fight, aren't we?" Len asks, slick as anything, smiling a smile the Trickster would be proud of. "We humans. So maybe we should fight King Grodd instead."

"Grodd does not need to fight _you_ ," Grodd snaps.

"The winner of the fight takes the throne," Solovar says, frowning. "Humans may not take a gorilla throne."

"Then we fight as proxy," Len says, unfazed. "We will not reign, but when we win, we will appoint the monarch to govern in our stead."

"When?" Grodd bellows. " _When_ you win?"

Barry is honestly in awe of how effective Len is at using nothing but words to drive people up the wall.

"I know," Len says agreeably. "It's such a frightening concept, going into battle against four humans. If you'd like to surrender up front, of course..."

"Grodd is not afraid! How dare you suggest such a thing!"

Len shrugs. "Of course not," he assures Grodd in his most patronizing voice. "Not scared at all. Just - cautious. Reasonable. You're just thinking of your dignity as a monarch. Can't go around fighting just anyone. Certainly not humans. We're so beneath you, you know; that's the only reason you'd refuse. Not fear."

The way Len says it leaves no doubt that any of these justifications would be nothing more than an excuse, driven by fear. 

Barry would be impressed by Len's excellent manipulation, except for the fact that there is _no way_ they can defeat Grodd. What in Mithros' name is Len thinking?!

Solovar shrugs as if it doesn't matter to him. "Grodd may choose not to fight," he says. "Solovar will not judge Grodd if Grodd does not -"

"Grodd will fight," Grodd spits. "Grodd will kill them, and then you, Solovar!"

"We require our weapons," Len says.

"You may have fifteen minutes to retrieve them," Solovar orders.

They go to get their weapons. Their guide, Timbu, offers them from the sidelines, looking impressed.

"You are not wise, humans," he tells them. "Brave, but not wise."

"Thanks," Len says dryly.

"Timbu wishes you well," Timbu says. "Grodd's war must not come to pass." With that, he retreats back into the stands.

"I have to agree with him, though," Iris says once he's gone. "Are you nuts?"

"I'm with Iris here," Barry says. "What were you thinking?"

"Before we left, Mick had a vision of this place, accompanied by a feeling of danger," Len says briskly, crouching down to unpack the kit Mick had been carrying. "So we brought our heavy duty weapons - very good ones, mage-forged, from the City of the Gods. I wasn't sure even with those that we could win, not until I saw Barry run."

"Me?" Barry says.

"Draw your sword," Len suggests.

Barry does. In the torches of Gorilla City, he can see what he didn't in the forest – he’d seen that it was run through by a second metal in addition to the steel, but now he sees that that second metal is copper, a thick vein running all the way through the center of the sword to the hilt. 

"Oh," he says. "That's...interesting?"

"Copper conducts electricity," Len says. "You emit electricity when you run, Barry - lightning at your heels. I think if you run in circles as fast as you can around Grodd, then point with your sword, you'll be able to throw lightning at him."

Barry's eyes widen. "I guess I named her well," he says. Lightning, like Lady Alanna’s – perhaps there’s something to the whole naming thing after all.

"What about me?" Iris asks.

"You're the princess of a human state," Len says, voice turning grim. "You're what Grodd hates most, which means you get the fun job."

"The fun job?"

"Bait," Mick says. 

"Oh," she says. "Well, I'll give it my best shot."

Len pulls out the weapons he brought. It turns out that Len and Mick's mage-forged weapons are crossbows that send out blasts of ice and flame, respectively.

“Where did you even _get_ those?” Iris demands. 

“I had them in my pack,” Mick replies, unruffled. 

“You _packed away_ crossbows of ice and fire?!”

"Cold and heat," Len corrects, ignoring Iris’ distaste for their method of smuggling high grade magical weapons around. "This is elemental magic, not nature magic. I can slow down the fastest creature - even you, Barry, if I had to."

"Useful," Iris says. " _Extremely illegal_ to be possessed or trafficked by anyone not licensed by the crown, I'm pretty sure."

"I'm the _Rogue_ ," Len reminds her.

"I'm just saying..."

"We can debate it later. You all get the plan?"

They nod and return to the pit.

The battle begins at the moment the fifteen minutes counts down to zero, without any further ado. 

Grodd is fast, and strong; he starts by throws his spear at them - it misses and buries itself halfway into a wall - then charges forward, reaching out to grab them. Barry runs faster than he ever has, pulling everyone away from his grasp.

And then, just as Len had thought, Grodd goes after Iris, ignoring the rest of them. 

Barry runs.

Barry grabs Iris, drops her off, then runs off again, then runs back to grab her before Grodd can get her. Gorillas move fast when they’re charging; it’s not easy, even at Barry's speed. 

"You cannot survive by running," Grodd roars, pointing at Barry, and the aura appears around his head and suddenly Barry is in pain, terrible pain, awful pain - he can't move, he can't do anything - the pain drives him to his knees –

The pain is gone, lifted; Grodd roars in agony as Mick's flames hit him square in the back.

The gorilla king spins and throws a knife hidden in the shoulder piece of his armor. Barry's still getting to his feet, too slow to be able to start running to grab him, but Mick dodges narrowly, the knife slicing into his arm. It’s a small cut, but the reaction of the crowd is – immense.

The pit is suddenly filled with roaring, angry gorillas everywhere, all the crowd leaping up to their feet, roaring, beating their chests. The wave of noise is so overpowering even Grodd is rocked back a little on his heels.

"What's going on?" Iris screams, but Barry can't hear her; it looks like she's just mouthing the words.

A gong rings out, deafeningly loud.

Solovar has struck the gong that sits between the two kings. "Silence!" he roars in the quiet immediately following. "This is a duel, accepted by Grodd. It is legally binding. There will be no interruptions!"

"But the human is god-born!" one of the gorillas in the audience cries. "He is a child of the Immortal Realms!"

"He is?" Len says, startled.

"I am?" Mick says, equally surprised.

“We didn’t know that,” Barry says. 

“Which god?” Iris asks, because she’s always been the practical one.

"You know, I was mostly kidding about the omniscient thing..." Len adds, still looking stunned. “Mostly, anyway.”

He hadn't been, but Barry won't call him out on it. 

"It is true," Solovar says, his eyes falling on Mick. "Your dam was not of mortal make; we can smell it in your blood. We do not welcome your kind here."

"We _were_ trying to leave," Iris reminds him.

"And if you win the duel, you shall," Solovar says. "Begin again!"

“Now, Barry!” Len shouts.

And so Barry starts running in circles around the arena, finding to his bemusement that he’s getting faster with each round as the momentum builds, each round almost easier than the one before it, no exhaustion, no pain in his legs, nothing. He’s leaving a trail of lightning behind him, yellow sparks, and it’s building and building and building until –

He draws his new sword, pointing it straight at Grodd, standing between Len’s ice and Mick’s flame and roaring.

Barry stops. 

The lightning that was building up behind him doesn’t, flowing down through the sword and straight into Grodd. 

The sound it makes is as loud as thunder, and Grodd is thrown clear across the pit and into the far wall.

Mithros, that was _awesome_.

Best. Sword. Ever. 

Len stalks after Grodd, crossbow at ready, eyes avid.

Grodd staggers out of the wall, shaking his head in disorientation. His eyes settle on Len.

“You dare challenge Grodd,” he rasps. The aura appears around his head, appearing also around Len’s head – that hadn’t been there earlier, when Grodd had been studying Iris and Barry. Barry really hopes means that Grodd is tired. He doesn’t know if he can do that type of sprint again, all the tiredness he hadn’t felt earlier suddenly catching up with him. He really should've practiced this super-speed running thing more. “You dare!”

Len smiles. “Try me,” he says.

Grodd throws out a hand at him, focusing, but then staggers back. “What – what is –”

“I had,” Len says very pleasantly, “ a _really_ shitty childhood. You're just sending memories of pain, ain't you? Well, I’ve got plenty.”

Grodd staggers forward, reaching for Len, but that only gets him into the range of Mick’s flames. 

He staggers back again.

Len lifts his crossbow and ices Grodd’s feet. 

“King Solovar,” he calls, not moving his eyes from Grodd. His voice echoes throughout the pit. “Ring the gong and call it a day, or I will have Barry run Grodd through with his sword of lightning.”

“No!” Grodd bellows.

And then suddenly there’s a knife in his chest, right next where the armor separates. It's nowhere near enough to be fatal, but it does make Grodd start bleeding. 

Everyone turns to stare at –

Iris?

“What?” she says, readying her next one. “Mick’s been teaching me. Len, keep his feet frozen; I’ll aim for his eyes, next.”

“Enough,” Solovar says. “You have won.”

“Grodd does not surrender!” Grodd shouts.

“If any here object to Solovar calling the fight,” Solovar bellows back, “you must challenge Solovar now!”

No one speaks but for Grodd’s roars, wordless now in rage.

Solovar hits the gong. 

“Take Grodd away,” he says, not without satisfaction, and gorillas run in from the sides of the pit, swinging over the side, to grab Grodd by the arms to pull him out of sight. “Humans – name your champion, who will serve as king in your name.”

They all look at each other.

“Timbu loves the city,” Barry suggests. “A lot.”

Len shrugs. “More practically, he’s also the only one here we know the name of. He’ll do.”

Solovar does not look particularly impressed with their decision-making process, though he does look amused.

“We can go home now, right?” Iris asks Solovar.

“Yes,” Solovar says. “You have won that right. You will be escorted back to your lands, where the forest ends and Castle Perilous’ lands begin. Tell Master Julian that Solovar will meet him at the usual place at the full moon –” That was only a few days from now. “– and we will make a treaty. Peace, between humans and the gorillas.”

“I’ll represent Tortall,” Iris says immediately, and even tired and disheveled from their trip through the forest and the fight they just had, she looks truly regal standing straight and looking him dead in the eyes. A real princess, even if she often tries to hide it. “If your terms are fair and just, your agreement will be accepted by the ruler of our land, and written into the books of law. I swear it.”

That does seem to impress him.

“Solovar thanks you,” he says. “In return, Solovar offers you a gift of knowledge.”

“I act in the best interests of my people,” she says. “You owe me no debt to be repaid; but if you wish to offer a gift, I will not do you the dishonor of refusing.”

“That’s fancy-talk for sure, gimme,” Len murmurs, rolling his eyes.

Solovar steps away from his throne and leaps forward, landing in the pit right in front of Iris.

Iris doesn’t flinch.

“You are brave, human princess,” Solovar says. “But you are bespelled.”

Iris’ eyes go wide. “Bespelled?”

“Your mind is clouded in a way your friends' are not,” Solovar says. “Solovar will break it for you, if you wish.”

“Will I know who cast it?”

“No,” he says. “Only that which was hidden from you will now be revealed. But you must agree to it.”

Barry opens his mouth in alarm – consent is a tricky business in magery, and not to be given lightly – but for all his speed, he’s too late. Iris raises her head. “Yes,” she says, fists clenching. “I consent. I’m not going to be bespelled a second longer than I have to be!”

“Granted,” Solovar rumbles, and Iris’ head shines with an aura the color of gold in a blinding flash of light.


	5. Sickness

“I swear, they’re practically asking for us to break in,” Len murmurs as he slips through the window of Castle Perilous. 

“No kidding,” Mick says. “Candy from a baby.”

“Let’s go visit the ladies’ quarters, grab some gems, and then we’ll find Barry and Iris,” Len says. “Business before pleasure, after all.”

He promised his thieves that the Rogue would pull a heist on Castle Perilous, after all. He just didn't expect it to be this easy.

A scary reputation works wonders, but only on people who know it.

Mick nods.

“You good?” Len checks.

Mick rolls his eyes at him. “You’d think you’d worry less, now,” he grumbles, his shoulders rising up to his ears defensively, even though that wasn’t what Len was referring to.

They didn't talk about the revelation that Mick’s mother was a goddess of some variety until they were alone, despite Barry’s inquisitive looks and Iris’ leading questions. Len alone knows the story of Mick’s family: how he became possessed with the firebug fits at a young age, drawn to the fire as the sole method of quenching his anxiety, delighting in watching the flames jump and dance; how he lit one fire too many, and it spread too far, too fast, until it consumed the house and Mick’s family with it, while he was locked into the firebug fit and unable to call for aid or even a warning; how the village he lived in cast him out afterward, disgusted with the local knight’s finding that Mick had not intended any harm and had not been to blame. How Mick wandered, alone but for his knack for making fire, through the woods and the plains and the swamps until he had walked all the way to Corus. 

Mick’s story involved both a mother and a father. Neither had ever given any hint that he was not a true-born member of the family, much less what goddess was involved.

It's a bit of a touchy subject. Only Len is allowed to touch on it, and only because he knows when to drop it and when to joke about it, like now.

Len widens his eyes. “But Mick,” he whines theatrically, “I’m not worried at all, unless you mean about the legions of worshippers that will no doubt appear once you ascend to the heavens in a burst of light…”

Mick sniggers. “You’re a dick.”

“Business first,” Len reminds him. 

Getting the jewels is easy enough. Finding Barry and Iris, it turns out, is even easier – they’re walking away from the ladies’ quarters, their pockets full, and they hear them coming down the hallway, their voices echoing ahead of them.

“So you don’t have any idea what the spell affecting you was?” Barry asks. He’s speaking in a low voice, but Len can still hear him. It’s also clearly not the first time he’s asked; if Len was a betting man, he’d say Barry’s likely been asking it all week. He’d certainly asked it at least three times on the way back from Gorilla City.

“Nope,” Iris says, equally frustrated. “Solovar said it was subtle.” 

“It can’t be _that_ subtle.”

“Sure it can be,” Len says cheerfully, coming out of a dark corner.

They both spin around. “Len! Mick!” Barry yelps. “This is Castle Perilous, you can’t be in here!”

“And yet, look and see it happening,” Len says. 

“But – how…?”

“The windows were wide open.”

“That’s because it’s hot,” Iris says, but she’s hiding a smile. “Tell me you aren’t stealing anything.”

“I don’t like to lie to you,” Len says, smirking at her as she rolls her eyes and mouths ‘Rogue’ as if it’s an insult. “But I’ve been thinking about it – subtle bespelling’s pretty hard to do, but there’s a couple of ways I can think of it to go.”

“Oh?”

“Favor,” Mick says, having discussed it with Len. “Having the good opinion of the princess counts for a lot, and it’d be pretty subtle.”

"I don't think I really _favored_ anyone," Iris objects. "Not really." She frowns. "Wait - not _Eddie_?"

Len is surprised into a snort. "Don't be absurd."

"I don't feel any different, thinking about him," she observes.

"Also, he's - _Eddie_ ," Len says, which really should say everything. Eddie is a terrible thief, being as he is honest, stalwart, and true, always willing to believe the best of others but with a practical understanding of people, good judgment and strength of will that keeps him from being gullible. Len eventually gave up and got him a legit job selling in one of the Rogues' offshoot pawnshops, and he's been doing brisk trade ever since. Honest trade, no less, and the Provosts' Men keep raiding him because they can't figure out his game. It distracts them from the real Rogues' games in the area; Len wishes he'd thought of using honesty to bamboozle the Provost years ago. 

"He has a point," Barry says, shooting Len a warm, fond look.

Len feels his lips quirk up instinctively in response, and that just won't do. "Speaking of good points that I have, let’s go back to what we discussed on the way back to Castle Perilous, Barry. Have you given any more thought to my offer of _running_ lessons?"

Barry sighs.

"You should," Iris says. "If you refuse to get, uh, formal training."

"Given the disadvantages of formal training include being shipped off to the mountains for the next ten years," Barry says, "that answer isn't changing."

"Then what's wrong with this? You already go to Mick and Len for fighting lessons."

"Which you're doing pretty good at," Mick says.

"Mick doesn't compliment people lightly," Len tells Barry, who already knows that and is glowing with pride as a result. "We can reserve half or even two thirds of your lesson time for, uh, _running_."

"Oh, fine," Barry says with a sigh. Iris smiles a victorious smile, which makes Len suspect that she has something to do with his agreement; he doesn't care, really. He's just happy Barry's going to keep coming down to see them every week.

Hmm. Len hadn't realized he so looked forward to Barry's company. He'll have to discuss the issue with Mick.

Though, he notes to himself, judging by Mick's fond, somewhat possessive expression when he looks at Barry, he doesn't think Mick will an _issue_ so much as an _opportunity_.

"Maybe tell me about the last week," Mick tells Iris. "Maybe we'll see something you lot missed."

"I guess," Iris says.

"You're going to be disappointed," Barry adds.

They are. A knight-in-training's life is apparently hideously boring and repetitive. Class, training, chores, sleep; class, training, chores, sleep; training, _then_ class, then chores, then sleep, just to mix it up. 

"No wonder you haven't figured out the spell," Len mutters. "You haven't _done_ anything."

"Corus is more interesting," Iris concedes.

"Though we do have an extra class tomorrow," Barry grumbles. "With _Eobard_."

"Thawne Eobard of Bergen?" Len asks.

"That's the one. And before you say anything, Iris, I know you think he's nice - _everyone_ thinks he's _nice_ \- but I just plain old don't like him, so you can stop trying to argue me into it."

Iris isn't arguing, though, she's frowning. "Eobard," she says. "I said he was - nice?"

"Oh yeah," Barry says. "You say he's nice, Cisco says he's nice, Caitlin says he's nice..."

"I'd use plenty of words to describe him," Iris says, frowning deeper. "Good ally, yes, but _nice_? He's not nice. He's a dick."

Len and Mick look at each other.

Barry is frowning, now, too. "But you - we had an argument about this just the other week, before we went to the city! I was complaining about how much he brought up the hidden city legend, and you said I was being rude because he was just being nice, and I told you it practically sounded like he was _daring_ you to go -"

"I think," Len interjects, "that we've found our spell. And our spellcaster."

"Eobard?!" Iris exclaims. "Don't be ridiculous. He's a good ally; he's never given us any reason -"

"A good ally with a murky past," Len reminds her. "The Thawnes have always been good allies of Tortall - at least, they were before they were all slaughtered to a man, and far-cousin Eobard suddenly took the throne."

That gives Iris pause. "We didn't really do a proper investigation of that," she murmurs. "Not really. I thought it odd, at the time, and - I think I was pressing Dad to let me do it, actually, since it was an opportunity to travel - but then we dropped it, for some reason. I don't remember why."

Len and Mick exchange glances again.

"Barry," Mick says, "exactly how many people did you say called Eobard 'nice'? Specifically 'nice'?"

Barry's starting to look pretty upset himself. "All of them," he says. "All the knights-in-training in our class, for sure; plenty of others, too. That first day, we were talking about the Thawne's past, remember? With Caitlin and Cisco? I didn't pay any attention that day because I thought Caitlin would cover me the way she always does, with her perfect memory and note-taking, but all she could tell me about that class was that he'd talked a bit about his role in his government...and then she said he was 'nice', too."

"Exactly how often does this Thawne guy come talk to your knights' classes?" Len asks. He's concerned he knows the answer.

Iris looks pretty grim. "Every year," she says. "For the last three, at least. And he does it for knights sometimes, too."

"There has to be a base spell," Mick says. "If it's all the same -"

Len's nodding. "That makes sense."

"I'm not sure I understand," Iris says.

"I do," Barry says. "I read up a lot on magery for, uh, obvious reasons, but if you want one spell to affect a lot of people the same way, it's easier to build a spell apparatus somewhere safe and then use something else, a conduit, to apply the spell to people."

"A light source of some type," Len says. "A mirror, a lamp, even reflections in a jewel would do it."

Iris and Barry glance at each other.

"You think..?" Barry starts.

"That stupid yellow jewel he's always playing with," Iris says. "He brings it out for meetings like with the knights, but keeps it away the rest of the time - I thought he was just nervous around crowds or something, but he isn't the rest of the time - the more fool me-"

"You were bespelled," Barry reminds her.

"By a spell you apparently missed by being bad at class," Iris says, scowling. 

"I wanted to see my mother," Barry says, shrugging. "I couldn't focus...wait, do you think she's affected? She's the _spymaster_!"

"I think we have to assume everyone is affected," Iris says. "Or else someone else would've noticed it - the King’s Mage, for one thing! Master Darhk! Why didn't _he_ notice?"

"How friendly is he with Thawne?" Len asks.

Iris winces. "Very. They agree on - many things."

"Many things, some of which have become policy, if I guess it," Len says.

Iris' jaw tightens, confirming his suspicions.

"We have to stop them," Barry says.

"But _how_?" Iris says. "If everyone's affected -"

"The spell basis has to be close to its victims in the beginning to get it going," Len says. "It'll be in the palace. If we find it, and destroy it..."

"Everyone breaks free," Iris says, nodding. 

"I could use my speed if we need to," Barry says. "You all say I'm barely recognizable as a man when I do it; we could get in places, search them..."

"Yes, that'll work," Iris says. "Then we need to -"

"Princess Iris!" a voice shouts from down the hallway. "Princess Iris!"

"Here!" she shouts back, scowling and turning towards the voice. Len and Mick sink back into the shadows. 

A page boy runs down the hallway, panting. "Princess Iris," he says. "Oh, Princess -"

Iris frowns, clearly alarmed. "What? What is it? What's happened?"

"Your family - _Corus_ \- it's all been hit -"

"Hit?! What do you mean? With what?!"

"Disease," the page whispers. "They're all sick and getting sicker - oh, Princess. They say it's the Sweating Sickness."

\-----

The Sweating Sickness, terror of the reign of King Roald I, is in modern times known to have been an artificial disease, created by Roger of Conté. It was particularly pernicious, designed to kill first the mages who could heal or determine what the sickness was, and then the common folk, and only then the royal family. As far as anyone knew, the secret to conjuring it was lost with Roger's death, and it had never been seen again.

At least, until now.

"Who is the person sending it?" Iris demands of Mick. "How do we stop it?"

Mick shakes his head mutely. He's slow and he knows it, and Len knows it, and Barry knows it, and Iris' new-found belief in Mick's omniscience has obscured her memory of its faults.

Barry recalls how Len explained it to him in an aside - how Mick has always been slow to process things, slow to recall words, slow in a way that had made people scoff at him for being unintelligent, but how he always came up with an answer in the end and only Len with his perfect memory could match answer to question. Barry suggested to Len that perhaps that was the answer, that the two were related - if Mick was a demigod, then perhaps he was somewhat omniscient in a non-joking sense, but he was processing that vast knowledge through a human mind and as a result even simple answers or words could at times come slowly. Len agreed, but warned Barry that it was a sensitive subject.

"It also," Len said, "gives rise yet again to the question of what goddess? Assuming we know of her."

"The Goddess doesn't bear children herself, she adopts them; and at any rate she is known for wisdom, not all-knowledge," Barry replied. "Gainel, perhaps? He's a god of dreams, he's as close as the gods get to omniscient, and he's known for taking the shapes of others..."

"Mick seems far too practical for that," Len said doubtfully.

And then they stopped, because Mick was coming, and the topic upsets him. Barry doesn't want Mick upset.

That's why he steps forward now. "Iris," he says. "You can't force foreknowledge. You know that."

"The last time the Sweating Sickness came to Corus, it killed thousands," Iris snaps. "We have to - we have to do _something_."

"We're a lot more advanced than they were then," Barry says. "We have the mage universities, and a lot more trained mages."

"And the King’s Mage potentially in league with the enemy!" Iris exclaims. She shakes her head, upset. "We have to find that model."

"You can't do that without returning to Corus," Len says. He's been packing his things all day to return himself; the Rogue no more abandoned his people in a crisis than the royal family did. "When I'm there, I'll look -"

"You'll be busy with organizing the criminals and the poor," Iris says. "They need treatment as much as the rich, after all."

"And they'll get it," Len confirms. "Even if I have to steal it."

"I have no doubt," Iris says. "That's why the office of the Rogue has been permitted to flourish all these years. But you're wrong about one assumption - I am _also_ returning to Corus."

"What?!" Barry yelps. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Iris carried her point; Barry had to admit she had one. As a member of the royal family, she was a potential target of the Sweating Sickness, and they didn’t want it to spread outside of Corus if it didn’t have to. At the very least, she had been forced to concede that she would remain outside of the city in a small camp, instead of actively walking into the diseased city. 

Barry also successfully insisted on being part of the group that comes back with her. Cisco and Caitlin as well. 

He’d finished his packing earlier and gone off with Len to try to find Mick – Mick had disappeared earlier, claiming that he needed to light a fire and looking antsy. Barry hoped Mick was all right; he liked Mick.

He liked Mick a _lot_ , actually. He's seen how people will sometimes overlook Mick because he's overshadowed by Len's exuberant personality, but Barry's always appreciated Mick's quiet confidence, the rare but heartfelt compliments, his deadpan sense of humor...

Oh, crap. Does Barry have a crush on Mick? He thought the one he had on _Len_ was bad enough!

“I see him,” Len says.

Barry puts aside his newfound concern and squints up ahead, where an old warehouse by the river is on fire, yes, but it’s also already ringed with firefighters prepped to fight it. “How’d they find it so fast?”

"Already scheduled demolition," Len replies in a murmur. "I get Mick a list of all of 'em going on."

Barry nods, relieved. He knows Mick's a firebug, doesn't hold it against him, but he wasn't really looking forward to carting buckets of well-water to help put something out.

Mick is standing by the edge of the fire, staring at it, his pupils dilated, his mouth slightly agape. Barry doesn't need Len to tell him to take a seat next to Mick's unmoving form. He already knows they might be here a while. 

It's nearly half an hour before Mick stirs.

"Mick?" Len says immediately. "I'm here. Barry, too."

Mick nods mutely. "Thanks," he rasps.

Len hands him the cup of water he retrieved for him at the start. It's warm now, of course, after so long by the fire, but Mick still gulps it down gratefully.

"Just a fit?" Barry asks, as gently as he can. "Or did you see something?"

Mick wipes his mouth clean. "I have to go," he tells them.

Both Len and Barry droop a bit.

"Not now," Mick clarifies. "But - when you go back to Corus, I'm not coming with you."

"You're _not_?" Len says sharply. "What do you mean?"

"I have something I need to do," Mick says. "Something only I can do; something that needs to be done."

"Can we help?" Barry asks immediately.

Mick looks at him fondly, and Len's glance is no less tender. Barry blushes a bit. Having them look at him that way...

"No," Mick says. "You have to stop the Sickness. And Eobard. Be careful; someone willing to bespell a foreign power in their own palace has tricks up his sleeve."

"I'll be careful."

"And what about me?" Len asks, his voice strange and strangled. "What'll I do without my right hand?"

Mick puts a hand on Len's shoulder. "I'll come back to you," he says comfortingly. "But this is something that's gotta be done."

Len swallows, hard, and nods. "But not now," he says.

"Not now," Mick agrees. "Tomorrow."

Len puts his hand on Mick's. 

Barry feels his cheeks flush and he averts his eyes. He's always thought that Len and Mick were so beautiful - both of them, each in their own way, Len's wiry strength next to Mick's burly breadth and thick muscles - and he's always _suspected_ that they were lovers, thought about it late at night when he's alone, dreamt of it, but...

Well. This is not a moment for him. This is a moment for them.

"Hey, Barry," Len says, his eyes flickering to Mick in that way they had, instant understanding at a glance. 

"Ye-yeah?" Barry asks, having to clear his throat. "I was just going to head back to Castle Perilous, actually, now that I think about it -"

Mick's hand falls on Barry's shoulder, heavy and warm. "Don't go," he says.

"No," Len says, "don't go, Barry."

"But -" Barry says helplessly. "Don't you - I don't know - don't you want to be alone?"

They glance at each other, then turn and regard Barry with shark-like smiles. "We do," Len says. "We just want to be alone _with_ you."

"If you get our meaning," Mick says, his voice low and deep and just right to send shivers down Barry's spine.

"This isn't some sort of 'you're probably going to die' thing, is it?" Barry asks weakly. He's pretty sure he's going to say yes even if it is.

"No," Mick says. "We like you."

"And we have it on pretty good authority that you like us," Len says.

Barry licks his lips.

They both watch the movement.

"We've discussed it," Len says. 

"We're not opposed to keeping you," Mick adds.

"Not like you don't come over every week already," Len agrees.

"You suit us both," Mick says.

"So, Barry, how about it?"

Oh, well, if they put it _that_ way...

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

"I can't believe you spent your packing time getting laid," Iris grumbles as they set out by horse.

"You're just jealous because Eddie's still in Corus," Barry says. He's still languid and relaxed all over; he knows it's driving Iris mad with jealousy and amusement both, but he can't help glowing about it. Len and Mick - they're something special. Each one of them alone, and together they're even more extraordinary. 

"Yes," Iris says. "Yes, yes I am." 

"We'll find the model," Barry assures her. 

"My father’s guards are turning over the entire city looking for the spell that’s causing the Sickness," Iris says unhappily. "It’s not like they don’t know it’s an artificial illness; everyone knows that. But nothing’s been found yet."

"They don't know where to look," Barry says. "We do. We're almost there, Iris."

"We have to stop the Sickness before we can do anything else," Iris says. "Even before we go for whatever spell Eobard is casting. People are _dying_. I just - is it bad that I hope that it's all one big plot? Because if it's someone else..."

"It's not," Barry says. He's sure of it.

Well, Len is sure of it, having surveilled Eobard for a few hours, and Barry trusts his judgment of people. Len says he's good at smelling rats.

Speaking of rats -

Barry reaches for his pocket to confirm that Faithful is still sleeping there. Mick gave him to Barry on his way out of the city earlier, telling him to take good care of his pet; Barry promised he would.

Faithful makes a small, satisfied squeaking noise when Barry runs his fingers through his fur. 

"You can't intend to carry him everywhere," Iris notes.

"Mick said to take care of him," Barry replies. "And he likes riding in my pocket. I don't see the problem."

Iris sighs dramatically, but Barry knows she doesn't mean it. She's worried about Mick's mysterious mission, too. It’s not like him.

Arriving at the impromptu camp set up at Corus' edge, in the park reserve, doesn't make anything better. Eobard frustratingly goes straight into the city proper, walking through each district without a hint of fear, talking to people and rallying morale in the way Iris would love to do but can't for the sake of her people. She's a royal and a target; she can't risk bringing more sickness with her. 

Eobard's efforts - noble and selfless as they appear - would be very effective, very subtle propaganda; poisonous treason disguised as aid, a way to make the city residents think of Eobard as 'appropriately kingly' in a crisis the way the royal family isn't. And it would work, too, but for one very special feature of Corus politics.

In Tortall, the royal family rules the country and is beloved by the people of its capital city, that much is true. But when a crisis comes, they are expected to focus on the bigger picture, while the citizens of Corus turn for succor to a different source.

Only one King walks the streets of Corus in a crisis, and he is not the King of Tortall.

The sheer flood of relief that greets Len when he returns is visible, faces relaxing, shoulders easing, tension disappearing although fear is not gone. The office of the Rogue has evolved over the years, gaining in influence and power, but it remains, as ever, the figure to whom the poor give their trust when the politicians fail them.

They call the Rogue the poor man's last resort.

In the last centuries, that role has grown. The Rogue, the city knows, cares first for the city which houses the treasure he steals. Unlike the royals, he has never abandoned Corus, remaining steadfast; he moderates the violence in the streets and fights against the unfairness of the Provosts' Men when no one else will. If he fails in his duty, he is murdered by another who takes his place; if there are no such contenders, the city itself rejects the Rogue, robbing him of his legitimacy, until one worthy of the role steps forward.

The Rogue doesn’t just steal. He rules. 

He _protects_.

When a sickness comes, the Rogue fights, threatens, and steals his people what resources they need. Every poor man who ever dropped a few pennies to the Rogue's tithe, every woman who's ever remained politely blank to the Provost's questions – they all know who has their back.

Eddie has been leading the charge in demanding that the healers of Corus treat the poor, too, right alongside the rich who can pay for the privilege, but the city's aristocracy has been slow and resistant to his efforts, no matter how prettily worded. The poor have given Eddie their support as the public face of the Rogue’s efforts, but their support means little in the courts, which have their own fears and their own interests.

After Len arrives, things change. 

Barry doesn't know if it's blackmail or bribes or threats or something else, but suddenly the machinery of the city begins to move. Nobles who were earlier indifferent to the city suddenly start singing a very different tune, opening their coffers and lending their votes to strengthen the city hospitals as well as the private ones frequented by nobles. A band of street-cleaners comes together, entirely voluntary and – if asked – spontaneous, and the streets of Corus shine like never before in an effort to stem the spread of the Sickness. Water is carted in from wells outside the city and people wait in line for it, drinking nothing else regardless of temptation. The city abruptly obeys the king’s curfew as if Mithros himself had imposed it, where before you could be guaranteed to find a good half of the city out and about after hours and damn what the Provost might say.

Len's legion of bully-men are the only ones out after hours. Where before their role was to patrol the city for unauthorized crime, to intimidate those criminals who failed to pay the Rogue's tithe, to keep an eye out for any sign of the Provost’s men coming too close to a job, it is different in the sickness. They run errands, they do chores, they beat the crap out of anyone they find outside, but they are easily summoned to any house that finds itself in desperate need of night-time excursions with a penny-whistle, which had been left on each doorstep. The house whispers through the door its needs and the men do whatever night-time task is necessary, dropping off parcels and delivering assurances. And at each dawn, Len’s legion of men turn themselves over en masse to the mages and doctors sworn to the Rogue, who examine them for any sign of illness.

The Sickness' spread is ground down to almost a halt. Yes, new cases continued to appear every day, but far, far fewer. Even a magical sickness needs be transmitted by regular means. 

Barry breathes a sigh of relief. 

Len has bought them time.

Iris frowns when she sees Eobard, whose annoyance is well-hidden, making a point to stop by Master Darhk on a daily basis to get, as he says publically and often to the news circulars’ men, "regular updates" on the crisis. 

"He's implying we don't," Iris says bitterly to Barry. "The Rogue does a lot, but it's the regular folks that follow him in times of need, not the nobles - and it's the nobles he's playing up to."

"I've seen him with the Rathaways," Barry says. "Among others."

"They're very rich, very powerful - and they don't much like my dad, ever since he banned them from court after they cast out their son for being deaf and therefore, in their eyes, 'imperfect'." Iris sighs. "They'll be able to spread whatever he says. Everyone knows they have a grudge, but as long as my dad continues to favor Eobard, praising him sounds like it's praising Dad - for now - and gives them extra credibility. Have we found anything yet?"

"No," Barry says. "Luckily we weren't here when the first wave hit - all the mages are at half-power or worse."

"All of them? Not just the healers?"

"All of them," Barry confirms. "Corus was the target - historians are agreeing that before the actual Sickness was released, a preliminary version went through the city, invisible, and stuck to anyone using magery."

"Damnit," Iris says. "But we were out of town..."

"But we're knights," he reminds her. "The majority of the mages are in the original training center in the City of the Gods or in the universities or outposts where they serve, all scattered all across the country, and they don't dare come here for fear of catching the sickness. All the mages Corus _did_ have were in the desert, remember, because of that unrest; they were all there, instead of out on individual tasks, and they all rushed back to try and fight the Sickness before they realized what it was."

"Very effective," Iris says bitterly. "Almost as if the caster of the Sickness knew it would happen - oh, wait. They probably did."

Barry, helpless, puts a hand on her shoulder. Iris smiles at him, a small, tremulous thing. "Thanks, Barry. I know you're trying your best."

"Want me to get you Eddie?" Barry offers. Eddie always could take Iris' mind off her troubles.

"No," Iris sighs wistfully. "He's doing good work in the city. That's more important."

"Let me at least get you a letter," Barry presses. "I'm searching the palace anyway - a detour to the city won't take that long, with my speed."

Iris pauses, reluctant to ask for anything so self-interested, but Barry can see that she wants it. 

"I'll do it," he promises her, and smiles. "It'll give me an excuse to see Len."

"Well, if that's the case, then yes," Iris says, a real smile curling her lips this time. "But be careful!"

"I will." 

Barry hugs her, then goes.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Barry heads to the palace first. He's been here every day this past week without fail. He’s already searched Eobard and Darhk's quarters without any luck, so he's widened his search, but despite zipping along the corridors like a flash of lightning, he’s just not finding anything. No mage-working, no circle, not even some vaguely suspicious-looking books. Nothing at all.

Damnit.

Barry sighs and veers off to the city. At least he’ll achieve _something_.

Barry runs into the city, looking for the Rogue.

He sees the signs of the Sickness everywhere he goes - what seems like a flash of light and a whoosh to everyone else seems, to him, like a mild jog, long enough to pay attention to things around him. Sometimes, like now, he wishes he didn't; the signs of illness are all around. The people scurrying through the streets like they're scared, the houses with the shutters painted black to warn of contamination, the tired-looking healers staggering on to their next patient -

There's an audible squeak.

Barry slows for a moment, unsure for a moment what is making the sound, but in that moment, Faithful slips out of his pocket and onto the street, streaking towards the next corner.

Barry yelps - visions of a disappointed Mick dancing before his eyes - and dashes after the rat.

Faithful is fast - he gets around the corner and halfway down the block before Barry catches up - but luckily he doesn't go down a pipe or somewhere Barry can't follow and so Barry scoops him right up, coming to a halt in a secluded cranny in the mostly-empty street.

"Don't do that," he hisses at Faithful, still vibrating at super-speed to try to hide his identity. "Do you know what Mick would do to me if I lost you?"

Faithful squeaks apologetically.

Barry shakes his head and sighs. "Sorry for snapping," he says, only mildly embarrassed by the fact that he's talking to a rat. 

Faithful nuzzles at him forgivingly. 

Barry sighs and slides Faithful back into his pocket, looking around the street to see if anyone likely to report him to the knight's court saw him, but there's no one he has to worry about around. 

No, now that he looks, he can tell that there's _nobody_ around. Every house's shutters are black and there's a musty sort of smell, like the whole street is empty - not just people hiding inside, no, but _empty_. 

Dead.

Barry swallows. "Oh, Faithful, where did you lead me," he murmurs. A dead street, where nothing moves but the wind in the empty awnings and the shapeless ghostly form moving down the main street -

Wait. _What?!_

Barry peeks out. It's not quite shapeless, but it's definitely translucent. Like a ghost, if ghosts come in the shape of giant rats with huge, putrid pus-filled sores all over -

Barry's eyes go wide as all the scary stories of his childhood hit him all at once.

"Oh Goddess," he whispers. "It's _Malady_."

Malady - one of the three Sorrows released upon the world during the Immortals War. The avatar of sickness and pestilence. Most deadly of the Three.

What the _fuck_. 

Faithful squeaks.

"Shhhhh!" Barry hisses. He does _not_ want to get Malady's attention. 

Luckily, the giant ghostly rat drags itself onward, down the street, head hanging low and swaying from side to side, nose crinkling just like Faithful does when he's annoyed. It doesn't look like it's particularly upbeat about going about its duties, which isn't what all the stories say about its vicious pleasure in illness. Barry's not sure if it's because of Len's brutally efficient anti-illness measures or if it's something else.

Faithful squeaks again.

Barry looks down at Faithful's strange purple eyes. He's about to shush him again, but -

He wouldn't have found Malady if Faithful hadn't come this way. He's still not sure why he can _see_ Malady, unless it’s because of the fact that he’s vibrating at super speed; but he wouldn’t have thought to look. And, well, if Mick's a demi-god, then there's no reason...

No, that's absurd. Faithful was a _cat_ , not a rat. The stories are pretty clear on that. 

But, still...

"What is it?" Barry whispers to Faithful, feeling a bit stupid.

Faithful squeaks again and crawls out of Barry's pocket into his hands. He's facing away from Malady, studying something behind him which Barry doesn't entirely understand - there's a Sorrow! Right there! How are you not looking at it?! - but Barry obediently turns to see what Faithful is looking at.

He doesn't see it at first, even starts doubting himself and thinking Faithful's looking for some snack, but then it flickers in the corner of his eye.

It's -

He's not sure how to describe it. 

There's a wavering yellow ribbon, barely visible, trailing through the air. It's incredibly thin - scarcely a ribbon, even - but it flickers when the light catches on it sometimes, floating gently in the wind. 

It extends back quite some distance, turning around the far block just at the edge of Barry's vision, and it goes forward to - Barry turns to follow the line - 

It goes straight to Malady, wrapped around the ghostly rat's throat as it trudges onwards.

Barry doesn't understand.

Faithful squeaks, satisfied, and dives back into Barry's pocket.

Barry doesn't _understand_.

Malady turns the corner, disappearing out of Barry's sight, and Barry breathes out a sigh of relief. Then he goes to find Len.

This clearly calls for a conference.

"Can you spare me a minute?" he asks Len, who looks like he hasn't slept in days. 

Len looks up from his paperwork, where he's scratching down payment totals and the lists of the sick. The lists of the dead. "I can spare you ten," he says, rubbing his eyes. When Len says a number, he means it.

Barry nods, wraps his arms around him, and sprints.

As Len had theorized, Barry's speed either makes him stronger or everything else feel lighter; carrying Len is no difficulty at all.

It takes nearly twenty seconds to drop Len off at the edge of the camp where Iris is keeping watch for him; forty more to double back and collect Eddie.

Iris is blinking. "A letter from Eddie," she says. "We agreed - a _letter_. Not that it's not great to see you in person, Eddie."

"What," Eddie says blankly. "What?"

"I'm a speed mage," Barry tells him. "Don't tell anybody." 

"Why are we here?" Len asks. "Nine minutes."

"I need your help," Barry says. "I saw Malady."

"We've all been seeing the malady, Barry," Iris says. "We're facing an epidemic of the Sweating Sickness."

"No! Not _a_ malady, _Malady_! Itself!"

Len's eyes narrow. "The _Sorrow_?"

"Yes! It was going down a dead street - there was a ribbon tied around its neck - "

"A ribbon," Eddie says, frowning. "A long, thin ribbon?"

Barry blinks. He hadn't actually expected Eddie to be useful, which he admits is not the most generous thought; Eddie's extremely competent when he's not mooning over Iris. He'd just assumed Eddie would be there for Iris and stand in at least a little their missing fourth. 

Not that anyone could fill Mick's place.

"Yes," Barry says. "Exactly so."

"Where I'm from," Eddie says, studying his hands, "there's a practice of string-magery. It's taught to everyone: if you can bind it in string made of spirit, you can control it. Not perfectly, but, well -"

"That must be it," Iris exclaims, reaching out to take Eddie's hands and squeezing them. "Barry, no one knows how the Sweating Sickness was first formed, or where Roger of Conté learned it -"

"Eddie, where are you from?" Len cuts in.

"I - I'm from Bergen," Eddie says.

"That's what I thought," Len says smugly. 

Iris has gone still. "Thawne Eobard's land," she says.

Eddie flinches, oddly enough. He must not like his monarch. 

"It was a yellow ribbon," Barry adds. "Same yellow that Eobard always wears - and the string went back some ways."

"We need to unbind Malady," Len says.

"Unbind a Sorrow?" Iris yelps. "That's a terrible idea. We can't just - let it run loose!"

"Malady's natural state is running loose," Len says. "We make it uncomfortable with our medicines and our cleanliness, but it is meant to roam free and cull our numbers where we don't take enough care, to remind us that it is always a threat. It's a fact of nature."

"But what if it strikes at us?"

"Better a natural malady," Len says grimly, "than the Sickness. Cholera I can hold off and fight, that's a city-man's disease. The Sickness is unnatural."

"Artificial," Barry says. "No wonder Malady looked, uh, peeved."

"Peeved," Eddie says disbelievingly. "Isn't it supposed to look like a rat?"

Barry pulls Faithful out of his pocket. Len barks a laugh and reaches out to scratch Faithful's chin. "Of course," he says. "Mick. Shoulda known. Barry, time for me to go back."

"But we haven't figured out how to fix this!" Barry exclaims.

"What you need is simple: gloves that don't let illness through. You have a doctor and a weaver. Use them. I need to go back now, Barry."

"Me, too," Eddie says, looking at Iris longingly. 

Barry sighs, but he runs them both back, Len first, Eddie second. He leaves Len with a kiss and Eddie with an apology, though judging by his blush Iris used the forty seconds they were alone to good use.

Then he returns to a pleased looking Iris. "So," he says, rubbing his face. "Malady. Which Len thinks I can deal with using _gloves_."

"If Malady doesn't want to be doing what it's doing, it might let you untie it," Iris says reasonably.

"Touching Malady means horrible, awful _death_ , Iris."

She winces. "Point. Well, as Len says, we just need to make sure you can untie Malady without touching it."

"With a doctor and a weaver?" Barry asks. "Len's not normally so cryptic."

Iris grins. "Oh, that wasn't cryptic at all - or haven't Cisco and Caitlin told you all about their families' favorite hobbies?"

Barry smacks his forehead. Of course! Caitlin's mother heads up one of the largest hospitals on the northern border, and Cisco's family were clothiers, and clothiers were one part design and the rest weaving. 

"Will they believe us?" he asks. It's been hard, having to keep their suspicions of Eobard from them, but Iris and Barry had decided that they couldn't risk the possibility that Eobard's spell had a trigger to make its subjects inform him of any investigation or threat against him.

"We don't have to tell them about Eobard," Iris decides. "Everyone knows that the Sickness is man-made."

"But how to explain how I happened to _see_ it? They don't know about - well - me."

Iris bites her lip. "That one I don't know."

Barry swallows. "Well, then," he says. "That just means I ought to explain. I trust them - on everything other than Eobard, anyway - and they're my friends. They should know."

Iris touches his shoulder. "They won't mind."


	6. Revelations

Cisco and Caitlin end up being...totally fine with the whole mage thing. 

"A mage? Really?" Caitlin says. "That's really interesting - have you given any thought to combining your abilities the way they used to in Good King Jonathan and Queen Thayet's day?"

"Of course you'd focus on the historical significance," Cisco says, rolling his eyes. "Seriously, Bar, you're a speedster mage? How could you not tell us that we could've all gotten our chores done in under ten minutes?"

"Because I'm not going to do your chores for you?" Barry suggests, smiling.

Cisco clutches at his heart dramatically. "I've been wronged!" 

Barry sticks out his tongue. 

Caitlin rolls her eyes and says "Boys!" and that's the end of it.

"So, only one question," Caitlin says. "Why now?" 

"What do you mean?" Cisco asks her.

"Barry clearly had a reason for telling us now," she says. "I don't think it's coincidence that we're dealing with the Sweating Sickness and Barry is one of the few unaffected mages."

"It's not," Barry says, and tells them the rest: running through the streets to search for the caster's station, Faithful distracting him, the dead street, Malady, even Eddie's explanation about string magic. 

Cisco and Caitlin exchange looks. "The hooded man?" he asks.

"The hooded man," she confirms.

Barry frowns at them, bewildered; his only consolation is that Iris looks just as lost. "What's that?"

"It's from the swamp-lands," Cisco explains. "From where Malady runs most free. They've invented an outfit that's called the hooded man - a special type of waxed clothing designed to keep out any liquid and most gases. People wear it all over to block any route for disease to come to you. My family's been working on importing it to try to make an improved rain gear, but there ought to be enough to make you a proper hooded man outfit."

"My mother sent me one of the masks to study," Caitlin adds. "It's a long, curved beak, with magic herbs and spells carved alongside the beak to permit only good air through. It's how you breathe in the suit."

"And you think that'll protect me?"

"The results until now have been pretty good," Caitlin says. "It's the best we've got."

The costume of the hooded man is intimidating, to say the least. It takes less than two days for Cisco to put together the outfit - boots and pants and coat and cloak, as many layers as a man going out to the mountains in winter - and for Caitlin to get the mask, which as she'd explained was a long, sinister-looking creation with bulbous black glass eyes and no gap for a mouth.

"I'm going to scare everybody I see," Barry says flatly. "You couldn't find a color other than red and yellow?"

"This is it," Caitlin says. "Unless you'd like to try your luck without it."

"Don't even think about it," Len says, here on one of his infrequent visits. He reaches out and rubs the heavy cloth between his fingers. "This is the good stuff, Barry - I've seen blood-cloth less resistant than this."

Caitlin nods, but Iris frowns. "Blood-cloth?"

"Butchers and surgeons wear it to repel blood that splashes onto their clothing," Caitlin explains.

"Not just those professions," Len murmurs with a smirk that fades as he looks at Barry. "I hate that it's gotta be you."

"I'm the only mage around who missed the initial rounds of infection," Barry replies with a sigh. He wishes it didn't have to be him, too. But he was going to be a knight, assuming any of them survived to graduation and the Chamber of the Ordeal, and risking his life for the good of many was something he'd have to get used to. It's quite literally part of the job.

That being said, Barry was secretly glad that Len, for all his slight touch of Sight, couldn't do it. He'd rather risk himself, any time.

"I've written letters to my parents," he tells his friends. "If I don't - well. Make sure they get them."

"I won't," Iris says. She's fighting back tears; Caitlin isn't even bothering with that much restraint. "Because you'll come back just fine."

"Iris."

"Oh, fine. If something happens, fine."

"Thank you."

"When you untie the string, don't let go," Len says.

They all turn to look at him.

"Follow it back to where it came from," he suggests. 

Cisco nods thoughtfully. "The caster's base."

"We could find evidence of who it is," Caitlin adds.

"Or what else they've been up to," Iris murmurs, exchanging significant looks with Barry and Len.

Barry hugs them all, kisses Len twice - once extra for Mick, who wouldn't have appreciated a letter - and goes.

Once he's at city center, he holds up Faithful. "Go on," he says, his voice muffled by the mask.

Faithful squeaks and goes.

It's another dead street. Barry abruptly suspects, seeing Malady limp down the way, that Malady is maliciously retreading its steps, a small act of defiance against the orders it has been forced to follow.

Barry puts Faithful back inside his pocket in a flash of light, reaching all the way inside his heavy, hot layering. Then he adjusts his mask and goes to meet a Sorrow.

Malady stops and hisses at the sight of him. It's appearance is disgusting - a gigantic, disgusting rat, so swollen with disease that it seems almost ready to burst with it, like rotten fruit. Barry has to fight back a gag - only the perfumed herbs in his mask's beak, chosen for their nausea-fighting properties and spelled to be even stronger, keep his gorge from rising.

"I don't want to fight you," he says, vibrating extra fast in his nervousness. The vibrations in the mask muffles his voice, making it deeper, almost eerily so. "I want to unbind you."

Malady looks suspicious.

"I mean, yes, I'd like you to leave _after_ that, but I'm being realistic here."

Malady huffs what almost seems like a laugh at that, suspicious glare fading, and it bows its head.

Swallowing, Barry kneels beside it and starts unwrapping the string as fast as he can.

It's very nearly not fast enough. 

Even his slick suit isn't enough to repel the _disintegration_ of the string that inches up the line as Barry hurries to loop it around Malady's head. Blackness and rot, stinking of putrid flesh, every loop Barry undoes is consumed, and it crawls up toward where his hands are and Barry is abruptly certain that if that decay touches him he will die, suit or no suit. 

"How did he get this _on_?" Barry hisses, eyes fixed on the approaching decay as he pulls yet another loop off. He can barely do it in time, and he's a speedster mage! It seems endless, loop after loop after loop - the decay coming for him - his speed starting to falter, not enough practice after all his years of hiding it - him biting his lip near to bleeding because he can’t slow down - can't die - he has to get back to Len, to Mick, to his friends -

And then, suddenly, it's done.

Barry's holding the end of a long string, clasped tightly in his fingers, and the decayed part drops off only to vanish into the paved road, where all manner of bugs skitter out and away, plague-carriers every one. 

Malady raises its head and regards Barry.

Barry, frozen, stares back.

Malady nods, head bowed low for just a moment, and then vanishes. 

Barry exhales. 

He _really_ hopes they're right that this will stop the Sickness. 

The string abruptly pulls tight, trying to escape his grasp, but Barry instinctively looped it around his own hand and is yanked up to his feet instead. It pulls painfully tight. He won’t be able to hold it for very long.

Barry turns in the direction the string is coming from and _runs_.

Whoever sent this Sickness upon Barry's city is going to pay.

Barry will make sure of it.

\--

The string leads to the palace.

It tries to lose him, going through closed doors and looping back on itself, but Barry's high on the adrenaline of terror and the rush of rage and he's running faster than he ever did before, and suddenly he sees everything broken down into frozen dots, like a stylized painting, and he can leap through doors made of those dots with ease. 

He's not sure how he's doing it, but he has to find the caster of this terrible spell. If he doesn't, they might try again. He can't let them try again.

The death toll of the Sickness has already been far too high.

And if this is Eobard or his ally, Darkh, that just makes it worse. Bespelling the royal family, subverting them, casting a sickness on them - Iris' mother and brother are bedridden, her father at their bedside - Iris herself spared only because she was away and stays away - 

Caitlin had quietly suggested to Barry that since Iris survived their adventure in Gorilla City and helped broker a peace regardless of her young age, making her an impromptu hero to most of the country, the caster of the Sickness might have decided to keep her alive to marry her for legitimacy. 

If it's Eobard, "nice" Eobard, then without the intervention of the secretive gorillas of the Hidden City, Iris wouldn't have realized the trap until her family was dead and her marriage announced.

Barry grinds his teeth and follows the string.

It leads to -

Barry snarls in anger. 

Whatever casting device was used, it's hidden in _Iris'_ quarters.

Her royal quarters, not the knight's barracks which she insisted on sharing with her classmates. She probably hasn't been back there for any longer than a brief moment to change into royal clothing in months, if not longer.

If Eobard's dares about the Hidden City had led to her death, her quarters would have been locked up in mourning, and no one would have ever found the casting.

Clever, if diabolical. 

The string leads straight to some sort of magic-looking design that vaguely resembles the carvings on the great gate that Roger of Conté tried to use to send Tortall into the realms of Chaos all those years ago, albeit one made of string. Even as Barry arrives, the string pulls out of his hand and winds itself furiously, destroying the design before disappearing in a puff of foul yellow smoke. 

Not a trace left. Of course.

But next to it is another working - a basket, this time, filled with dolls, covered by a cloth.

Barry's heard of that particular spell of Roger of Conté's, too. 

_Everyone_ has; you can't grow up in Tortall and not hear all the stories of Alanna the Lioness, her duel with Roger, and the subsequent revelation of her gender before all the court.

It’s a bewitching spell, just the same as the one that Roger of Conté used to hide his perfidy from the court until Alanna unmasked him.

But what to do about it?

He hears footsteps.

Someone is coming to this room. It's not Iris, Barry knows that much; she’s still in the camp and unable to enter the city. So it must be the caster of the spell.

Barry pulls his hooded beak down to make sure it covers his face and grabs the basket.

The door opens.

Thawne Eobard. Just as they'd all known.

And he looks angry, too.

Behind him - Damien Darkh, the King’s Mage, the one they'd all suspected, and Malcolm Lord Merlyn, the head of the elite knights' squad. Who they hadn't suspected at _all_.

_Oh, shit_ , Barry thinks, and runs out. Luckily Eobard and his allies are a bit back from the doorway, enabling Barry to duck around them; all Barry needs is some clear space and he'll be free, no one will be able to catch him once he's at top speed.

Or so he thinks, right up until there's a crackle of lightning and suddenly there's someone else running right behind him.

It's Thawne Eobard.

He isn't just a mage-worker. He's a speedster mage!

Barry grits his teeth and runs faster, twisting and veering and dodging, but Eobard is catching up to him. He's smirking, too - he knows he's faster, Barry knows he's faster, and there's nothing Barry can do about how Eobard inexorably strides behind him, calm where Barry is already gasping for air, contemptuously demonstrating his mastery of their mutual art.

Just as Barry thinks he can run no further, just as Eobard reaches out to grasp the back of Barry's hood to yank him back, there's a brilliant flare of white light that hits Eobard dead on and knocks him back.

_Cold_ white light.

Barry’s seen that light before, back in Gorilla City.

Len!

Len is standing outside of the Dancing Dove, his crossbow of ice held up to aim, the smirk on his face no less arrogant than Eobard's but far less cruel - and far more beloved.

Barry uses the opportunity to zip off behind the next building, but he slows, not wanting to leave Len alone.

It occurs to him a second later, seeing Eobard curse, that it also deprives Eobard of his trail of lightning. 

And then he turns on Len, his face vibrating too fast to be recognizable to anyone but another speedster mage, and says, "You robbed me of my quarry."

His voice is distorted, echoing in itself. It's frightening even to Barry, who can do the same, but Len is unmoved and unafraid. 

"If you can be robbed so easily," he drawls, "you don't deserve to keep it. Welcome to the streets of Corus – and the realm of the Rogue."

"The Rogue," Eobard says thoughtfully. He holds up a hand and begins to vibrate so fast that it hums in the air like a mage-powered saw. "Tell me, is it true that when I shred your heart in my hand, I become the Rogue after you."

Len sneers. "Never," he says. 

"Perhaps we should test that."

Len fires his crossbow, but Eobard is already dodging, appearing right in front of Len, and his hand is moving so fast - Barry can't go to Len, would never be able to stop Eobard in time, even if he didn't hold the future of the realm he's sworn to defend in his hands -

"Goodbye, Rogue," Eobard says.

But before he can move, there's another flash of light.

But not cold, oh no.

Hot.

Where Eobard was merely knocked back by Len's ice, shaking it off after a few moments, Mick's crossbow of flame - and it _is_ Mick, standing off to the side, grinning broadly and savagely the way he always does when there's violence afoot, familiar and beloved to Barry's eyes - makes Eobard shriek in agony and dash back a few steps to avoid it.

Mick drives him back, and back, and back, until Eobard shouts some small bit of furious resistance, the words drowned out by the roar of the flames, but then Len steps forward and raises up his crossbow of ice and Eobard turns tail and flees back to the palace.

Mick pulls back his weapon, though Len keeps his out, a wary eye out on the street.

"Mick!" Barry calls, forgetting discretion now that Eobard is gone. "You're back!"

"I told you I wouldn't be long," Mick says gruffly. 

"You said no such thing," Len snarks, but Barry sees the pleasure on his face and knows that Mick hasn't been back long at all. If he had been, Len would've mastered any trace of emotion by now.

Or maybe not, since it's Mick.

Barry reaches for Mick, wanting to embrace him, to kiss him -

"Barry!" Len snaps.

Barry freezes.

"Take that basket to Iris," Len says. " _Decontaminate yourself_. And only _then_ come meet us at the usual place."

Oh, right. Malady, the race, the basket of dolls.

Barry's still wearing the hooded man's beaked mask!

_Awkward_.

"I'll be back," he promises, and runs.

His feet feel lighter than air.

\--

Sadly, Barry ends up bringing Mick and Len and Eddie to the camp in a dizzying set of deliveries instead, because the work of saving the country trumps Barry's desire to greet his returned lover in person.

Barry sometimes wishes it didn't, but he knows his duty to his country.

"So Thawne Eobard is a speedster mage," Iris says, tapping her lip with a finger. "He sent the Sickness and bespelled - a lot of people."

"Unmasking the basket should break the spell," Barry says. "Per legend."

"We need to reveal him sooner rather than later," Len says. "He knows he's lost it; he may try another spell."

"You can't conflict spells like that," Iris says. "As long as this spell is still working, he can't cast another on the same people."

"Do you think he has Merlyn under such a spell?" Cisco asks. They've shown him and Caitlin the basket; it was enough to break the spell on them, little dolls dissolving inside of the cloth.

Now that they've had time to study it, it is what Iris proclaimed to be ingenious - based on Roger of Conté's original, of course, but improved. There is one main doll - Thawne Eobard – which is palm sized, and two others - Darkh and Merlyn - about two-thirds that size, and the rest are the size of pawns. And so, by the laws of magical symbolic transfer, they are pawns, willing pawns, to the games of Eobard and his allies.

"I don't think so," Iris says gently. "Eobard came for the first time four years ago - and that's when Merlyn first got permission to make his squads. Squads of the best of the best of our knights, bound together in secrecy and brotherhood, and sworn to serve his every order, no matter how unusual. They're not exactly what knights have traditionally been, you know."

Cisco sighs. "You're right," he says wistfully. "But it was something nice to aspire to."

"Darkh ascended to the position of the King’s Mage around the same time, didn't he?" Barry asks, thinking of his mother's letters. 

"Shortly thereafter," Iris confirms.

"He comes to the north, sometimes," Caitlin says quietly. "There are Libraries there, in the City of the Gods; he was too impatient to go through the proper procedures before reading them, and they denied him access. But then he became the King’s Mage, and they couldn't deny him any longer even if he didn't follow procedure..."

"Four years," Eddie whispers. "That's before -" His voice fails him.

"Before what?" Iris asks him, automatically reaching for him and grasping his hand in hers.

"Before the massacre of the old Thawnes, of course," Len drawls. "Eobard needed allies in Tortall that would help him keep his new-found throne, and access to the King in order to quash any investigation."

"Of course," Iris says, though she looks a little puzzled. "That makes sense."

"It's time," Mick says.

"Time for what?" Barry asks, but Mick ignores him. He's looking at Eddie.

"Time to tell everyone what we already know," Len says. "Go on, Eddie."

Eddie bites his lip and ducks his head.

"You tell them," Len says mildly. "Or we will."

"You," Eddie says. He pulls his hand gently away from Iris. "I don't know how you figured it out, but - please."

"What is it?" Iris asks, looking between them, worry plain on her face. “Tell me.”

Len gestures at Eddie. "Iris, Princess of Tortall, allow me to introduce you to Thawne Edward, youngest son of the family that was slaughtered."

There's a moment of utter shock and silence.

Then -

" _Really_?!" Iris yelps.

"I didn't mean to mislead you, Iris," Eddie says miserably. "There just never seemed to be a good time to bring it up, and at any rate I had realized when I arrived that Tortall wasn't investigating as I'd hoped they were, so I'm disinherited _anyway_ -"

"Not _disinherited_ ," Caitlin says. "Eddie, you're the _rightful heir_!"

"Well," Eddie says. "Not quite. My older brother survived, too. He's the heir."

"That's great!" Iris says.

He goggles at her. "It - is?"

"Not you lying to me by omission," Iris says briskly. "We'll talk about you making that up to me later. But the presence of a true-born Thawne will mean that Eobard's own men will not back him, not if we get you in front of him, and that will reduce the threat of war."

"Never did understand why a foreign leader was allowed to bring so many men," Cisco mutters. "Practically an army camped outside Corus' gates."

"An army we no longer have to worry about," Iris says. "More importantly, that means Eddie and I can marry, and not even my father will be able to object that it's not a properly strategic match."

"You - you'd still want to?" Eddie whispers. His eyes are wide and he looks as though all of his dreams had come true right when he had expected them to die forever. "You'll still take me?"

"I would've married you when you were still the Rogue's pawnshop owner," Iris declares. "This just makes it easier, that's all."

They all politely turn away for a moment to let the couple kiss passionately.

After a few moments, Iris clears her throat. "Um," she says. "Well, that's the problem of Eobard's army cleared up."

Everyone turns back. Most of them are smirking, though Len's nose is still scrunched up in disgust at the public display of affection. He's a private man.

“We still have to deal with Merlyn’s men,” Barry says, trying to hide his grin. “And Darkh. And Eobard!”

“Darkh especially,” Caitlin says, biting her lower lip. “We’re _knights_ , and he’s the King’s Mage. I mean, we could probably gather up all the knights that aren’t sworn to Merlyn – we have the advantage of numbers, at least, since he insisted on having small, elite squads – but _Darkh_? Even if Barry is a speedster mage, all of his attention will have to go against Thawne Eo– against Eobard, I mean. None of us are mages, and even if we could collect the ones in Corus to help us, they’re all still sick and half-powered because of the Sickness.”

"Iris can handle Darkh," Mick says.

Iris smiles, though it's shaky. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mick. But I'm not a mage, either. The line of Conté used to be powerful mages, but the only thing left nowadays is the ability to use the Dominion Jewel. I can't help you." 

"Sure you can," he replies.

"To go up against the top mage in the realm?" Caitlin says doubtfully. 

"Sorry, Mick, it really does seem like something we need a mage for," Cisco agrees. "Unless you have one in your pocket or something."

"That ain't what I got in my pocket," Mick says smugly, and pulls out a leather wrapped parcel out of said pocket.

"If I'd known we were distributing gifts, I would've worn something nicer," Len drawls.

"This is what I went to get," Mick says, taking no offense at Len’s snark. He finishes unwrapping it.

It's - a jewel?

Big and purple and - 

"Oh Goddess," Iris gasps. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Depends on what you think it is," Len says, looking a touch confused by the presence of the shiny object Mick is brandishing like it means something. "I'm gonna guess your first thought wasn't about its resale value..."

Sadly, that had been Barry's first thought too. His lovers were clearly a bad influence on him.

"It has no resale value, you thief!" Iris exclaims. "That's the _Dominion Jewel_!"

And then everyone is talking all at once, louder and louder until Len abruptly whistles long and shrill, deafening everyone around him. 

"Ain't sure about the rest of you," he says, glaring. "But where I'm from we conduct our _secret_ meetings _quietly_."

Everyone looks down and mumbles apologies. Len has a very effective disappointed look. 

"Now, one at a time."

"Wasn't the Jewel lost?" Barry jumps in first. Speed powers were meant for exploiting, after all. 

"Yep," Mick replies.

"But, like, really lost," Cisco says. "Not 'stuck up a mountain with a grumpy elemental' lost, more like 'threw itself in a volcano to punish Tortall's rulers for their overreach' sort of lost."

"Yep," Mick replies.

"Big, nasty, still-active volcano," Cisco adds. 

"Yep."

"The sort with fiery _lava_ in the -"

"What Cisco is trying to say," Caitlin interrupts, "is how? How did you find it?"

Mick shrugs. "I went to the volcano."

"What, and it was just _lying there_ and nobody noticed?" Cisco says skeptically.

Len, however, is frowning. "Mick," he says, his voice perfectly smooth and even in the way it is when something is actually upsetting him. "Are you telling me you went _inside_ the volcano?"

"I had to," Mick says apologetically. "S'where the Jewel was, and we needed the Jewel to fight the big bosses, and if we didn't beat them, bad things would happen. World was going to end, boss."

"You went _inside a volcano_ ," Len says stiffly. "No wonder you didn't tell me where you were going."

Barry winces. That tone does not speak well of Len's mood right now. From the look on Mick's face, he knows it, too.

"Len," Iris says. "Stop worrying retroactively when it'll do no one any good. He's alive, he's fine - that's what's important."

Len grudgingly nods.

Mick looks relieved. 

"Uh, guys?" Cisco says. "No offense for breaking up the feelings moment but - _how_ exactly did he survive? Kind of a key question here. The whole reason the Dominion Jewel picked a volcano to create and jump into is because the Gods can't really empower people to be flame-resistant. Well, maybe against magic flame, but not _regular_ flame. None of the Gods can do that, except maybe the Black God."

"I ain't the Black God's get," Mick grumbles when they all turn to look at him. "Mom, not dad, remember?"

"But then - how?"

Mick looks embarrassed. "Apparently my mom's the fire. Guess that's one reason why the firebug fits came on me so early. And why I see useful things in the fire."

"The fire," Barry says blankly. There's no goddess of flames, not unless - "Mick, your mother was _Mother Flame_?! The mother of the Gods?!"

"You're a god?!" Cisco yelps.

"No!" Mick says. " _Demi_ -god! My dad was a human - also prone to firebug fits, apparently - not a metaphysical concept!"

"You always did have to be special," Len drawls, but the ice in his tone is subsiding to more normal levels out of sheer amusement. 

"Does that mean you're _actually_ omniscient?" Iris asks.

"Wait, omniscient? How's that?" Cisco asks.

"Kinda?" Mick replies, shrugging helplessly. "I got _access_ to all the info, it just - I only got a human brain to sort it all through. S'why I'm so slow, sometimes. Even info I learn the human way just gets lost in the mess."

"Wow," Caitlin says, looking around the group to make sure that they’re being serious. "Can we -"

"Let's focus on defeating the bad guys," Len cuts in. "Yeah? Iris, can you use the Jewel?"

"I should be able to," Iris replies. "As I said, that’s the only thing we can do, the line of Jonathan and Thayet – the only remaining mage ability we have is the ability to use the Jewel. I mean, I've never _practiced_ \- for obvious reasons - but...yeah. I think so."

"So we have Eddie to talk down the Bergen army," Len says. "Cisco and Caitlin to gather up good knights to fight Merlyn's knights. Barry and me to hold off Eobard - and that leaves Mick and Iris to fight off Darkh."

"I don't know if I can beat Eobard," Barry confesses. "He's faster than me, more experienced, everything." 

Everyone else looks pretty ill at the scope of what they're up against, too.

Len rolls his eyes. "Come on now," he says briskly. "Have I ever gone after anything I wanted - _really_ wanted, shut up, Mick - without a plan made to succeed?"

Everyone stops looking sick and starts smiling.

After all, every one of them has had an opportunity to see Len's planning skills at work.

"Okay," Len says, satisfied smirk stretching across his face. "So here's what we're going to do -"


	7. Confrontation

When Len told the group they needed a distraction, he was already planning on involving fire but, he reflects, perhaps not this much fire.

Of course, with Mick involved, he really ought to have known better. Mick's answer to everything is fire, more fire, _bigger fire_.

In this case, a few carefully placed blazes in Len’s plan turns into “burn down part of the knights’ court” in Mick’s execution.

Len's slightly amazed that Iris agreed to the whole burning part of the plan, but judging from Cisco, Caitlin and Barry's avid agreement, it's clearly a part that no one has much affection for. 

Also, Len has to admit that Mick's idea for avoiding the Provost's Men is...ingenious. While still being somewhat traditional.

"We're going to summon all the rats of Corus to run through the palace and burn it down," Mick explains to a fascinated looking Iris. "Like how the Wild Mage summoned the rats of Carthak port to lend their life energy for the Rampage of the Bones."

"But we don't have wild magic," Iris objects.

"We don't need it. We have Faithful. Faithful will explain to the rats what we need to get done."

A moment of silence.

" _Really_?!" Iris bursts out. She's beaming like a small child. "Your Faithful is _the_ Faithful? The Cat?"

"The Rat, at the moment," Mick says cheerfully.

"I knew it!" Barry crows.

Len's glad they're all happy about it. He's just going to continue being _even more_ bitter about the fact that Faithful sometimes liked to stay in the room while he and Mick were having some precious downtime together.

Faithful liked to squeak at - inopportune moments.

Though, to be fair, he didn't make a peep when they'd finally gotten together with Barry.

Len still glares.

He _swears_ the rat is snickering at him and no, Mick, he is _not_ going to believe that he isn't really doing it this time. The time for excuses is _over_.

"Does everyone know what they're doing?" Len asks the group instead of throwing something at the rat. That would be undignified.

Everyone nods.

"Go. I'll raise the streets as a fallback."

With Barry by his side, getting back to the Dancing Dove is a snap. 

The next part is - probably easier than it ought to be, really. Power shouldn’t be concentrated in the hands of the few, but Len supposes if it has to be, better in his hands than anyone else’s. 

"I need a crowd," he tells his bully boys.

"What, in midday? What about the Provost's Men?"

"Let them come," Len says. "I've identified the caster of the Sickness, and I want everyone to know that a reckoning is coming."

The bully boys peal out of there at a run, devotion glowing in their eyes. Len reflects with some amusement that Barry's remarkable nose for trouble might have done more to help Len establish his standing among his men than any plot or plan that he might've accomplished alone. 

"You think we have enough time to wait for a crowd?" Barry asks him. He's clutching that basket of dolls like he's afraid someone will run up and grab it, which, fair. Len’s gotten him to cover it with a cloth for the moment.

"The others need time to set up," Len points out. "No, Barry; we're going to give them all the time we need and signal them when we're ready, and we're going to do it by marching a goddamn mob to their front door."

The bully boys do their jobs well - within half an hour, the street in front of the Dancing Dove is packed full. It's not a broad street by any means, so it's only a few hundred people that Len can see, but Len's certain that it's enough.

Nothing travels faster through the streets of Corus than gossip - not even speedsters.

There’s a little platform for public addresses, just outside the Dove; it was installed when the Rogues’ role expanded. 

Now - for the fun part.

"People of Corus," Len shouts.

They roar back. The poor, the dependent, the homeless, the criminals of Tortall - they know who he is, they know what he stands for, and they know as well as he does that if he calls on them in vain his neck will be on the chopping block.

"These last few weeks, we fought not just a disease, but men,” he says into the crowd, letting his drop in volume force the crowd silent, a sudden hush that makes his voice ring all the louder through the empty air. “Men who don’t care what price is paid in their pursuit of power; men that sent us a curse that kills our families, our friends, all to try to throw down the current system in order to line their own pockets. The Sweating Sickness killed lots of us, all in the name of making us distrust the king – but we don’t fall for that, do we?”

The crowd roars a negative.

“Of course not,” Len says with satisfaction. “People of Corus, _we’re_ the backbone of this country; we and _we alone_ are the final arbiters! Only we can march upon the palace to make the demands of those that are forgotten!”

The crowd makes even more noise.

“We found the source of the Sickness,” he shouts, raising his voice at last. “We tracked it to its source and freed our city from its clutches: from now on, we fear only disease, and not spells!”

The sound of the crowd is now nearly deafening. 

Len raises his hands for silence and, after a few moments, they give it to him.

“That’s not all we found,” he tells them. “We have found worse – proof of treachery! A bespelling, to hide its caster – bring forward now what we found!”

Barry steps forward, is practically pushed forward, until he’s by Len’s side.

Len yanks the cloth off. “You know what this is,” he shouts the crowd. “You grew up on the stories of Alanna, same as me!”

The crowd goes totally nuts.

“I give you names!” he bellows. “I give you Thawne Eobard of Bergen! I give you Master Damien Darkh! I give you Malcolm Lord Merlyn! And more than that, I give you _justice_!”

Mother Flame, but Len loves his job sometimes. 

The crowd starts chanting.

It’s not just a few hundred people anymore. Len still can’t see them all, but their voices flood the nearby streets. 

They’re chanting _Justice_. 

“Come with me,” Len shouts. “Come with me to the palace, where we will demand their heads!”

The crowd rushes forward, arms up, and it’s only Barry’s burst of speed that saves Len from being literally hoisted into the air on the arms of his people. 

Good.

Len _hates_ it when they do that. 

"Mob, check," he tells Barry cheerfully. Barry shakes his head, but his cheeks are flushed and he's beaming.

"You're something else, Len," he says. "Let's go."

"Slow and steady."

"I know that! I don't always zip around, you know - I kept it secret for years, I'll have you know -"

"I'd zip around all the time if I could," Len says.

"No, you wouldn't," Barry replies, infuriatingly sure. "You'd get bored at how easy it would make thieving." 

The sad part, of course, is that Barry's right.

Oh, well.

The mob is still chanting – _Justice, Justice, Justice_ – and their numbers are growing as people come out of their houses and join them in the street, engulfing Len and Barry and pulling them along with the crowd, the whole mob arrowing straight for the court proper - the king's court - and gathering up even more people as it goes.

They're singing songs that mostly end in "head on a pike" or some very clever slant rhymes involving Eobard and bastard. 

Times like this, Len remembers how much he loves his city.

They make it to the palace, which is already on fire in parts.

Excellent.

Len slides through the crowd like only a thief can and gets to Barry's side.

"Now or never," he tells him. 

Barry swallows hard, but nods. "Let's do this."

They make their way inside, the guards yielding to the Rogue in return for him ordering the crowd not to attack them. Len's happy to do it – he's never liked hurting people who are just doing their jobs, though he's not squeamish about it, either.

Even inside the palace, the crowd outside is audible, but the sudden decrease in the noise is immediate and noticeable.

Len and Barry exchange looks and head for the main hall.

Inside, King Joseph – he prefers "Joe", but Len isn’t feeling on friendly terms at the moment – is on his feet, shouting for order, as people scurry around trying to obey his instructions. His wife isn't present - she was hit pretty bad by the Sickness - but his son, Wally, is there, looking tired and still sickly.

"What's going on out there?!" the King roars, with some pretty impressive lungs for royalty. "I want answers, not excuses."

Eobard is on his left, Darkh and Merlyn on his right.

Well, then.

Len brings his fingers to his mouth and whistles the loudest and most piercing whistle he can, and he was born on a fishmonger's street. He can pierce stone if he puts his mind to it.

The room flinches, all together, and turn to look at them.

Len focuses his gaze on the King, who he's pleased to see recognizes him immediately.

As the room begins to speak again, the King throws up his hands. "Quiet!"

They go quiet.

"The Court of Tortall welcomes the Rogue of Corus," the King says formally. He knows what it means for the Rogue to raise a mob and come to court, even if he doesn't necessarily like it. "What is your grievance?"

"Not a grievance," Len says mildly. "An objection, and a favor done - to you."

"A favor? From the Rogue?"

"From your own knight," Len says. "In training, but whatever. Barry?"

Barry steps forward.

"Barry?" a woman, richly dressed, standing beside the king, asks. She has the same warm features as Barry - this must be Nora of Allen, the King's Spymaster. "What's going on?"

"You've been bespelled," Barry says, and pulls off the basket cover. "All of you."

Murmurs break out.

Everyone knows what the dolls stand for. They know their history.

"It was Thawne Eobard," Barry says, meeting the other man's eyes. Eobard doesn't look worried, though, which worries _Len_. "And his allies - Master Darkh and Lord Merlyn."

King Joe’s eyes narrow. "Is this true?" he asks them.

"Afraid so," Eobard replies, smiling slickly. "Not that it matters."

Len doesn't see what he means to do in time, but Barry does, dropping the basket and zipping across the room in time to pull King Joe’s out of the line of Eobard's rapidly vibrating hand. 

"So you do have the speedster Gift," Darkh says, looking annoyed. "And you're wasting your time training as a _knight_?!"

"Well, for one thing, I don't see it as a _waste_ ," Barry shoots back.

"You're a mage?!" Nora exclaims. "Barry, why didn't you tell me?"

Barry opens his mouth to respond, but Eobard lunges forward again, forcing Barry to yet again pull King Joe back from the danger zone. This time, there can be no doubt as to Eobard's deadly intentions, and that seems to rouse the King out of his shock.

"Knights of Tortall, to me!" King Joe shouts, but none of the armed knights in the room move.

"Sorry about that," Merlyn says. He doesn't sound sorry in the slightest. "The binding from the spell is all well and good, but I've bound them with loyalty and oaths - they're my knights, now."

"Not all of them," Cisco shouts, and pushes his way through what used to be a mirror and is now, unheard by anyone in the room, a blackened passageway. Len honestly doesn't want to know - sometimes he thinks Cisco's talents are wasted on both weaving and knighthood, and that he ought to have gone into smithing and inventing instead.

Cisco and Caitlin have a fairly large number of knights behind them.

Len grins. That'll make this a little more even.

Merlyn snorts. "My knights are far superior to yours," he boasts.

"They're traitors," Caitlin says. "We're not - and there's more of us."

"Why?" King Joe asks. “Why betray me?”

Len snorts. "Power. Obviously."

"Not wrong," Eobard says. He's eying Barry. "You're powerful, and very fast, if you defeated the Sickness."

Barry shrugs.

"Let's see how fast you are."

With that as his only warning, Eobard darts forward again, and then all that can be seen are two bolts of lightning, Barry's yellow and Eobard's red, going across the great hall and then out to the palace around them.

Len pulls out his crossbow. He'll have a trick of it, getting Eobard without hitting Barry - though perhaps if he hit them both, he could use the momentary advantage to assist Barry even if he's a bit icy –

"As fun as this all is," Darkh says. "I'm afraid you have nothing to counter _me_."

He raises his hands and a ball of flame appears between his hands. Darkh is the King’s Mage because of his tricks, but that was a matter of impatience, not because he wasn't capable - he has one of the few remaining manifold Gifts, fire and moving things without touching them and even transmutation. 

"That's not true," Iris' voice rings out. She's at the regular entrance, Mick by her side, and she holds in her own hand the Jewel, blazing purple, and around her grow a multitude of creeping, flowering vines. "I will counter you."

"The Dominion Jewel," Darkh says, and his eyes are avid and greedy. "That was thought lost."

"It _was_ lost," Iris says. "But in the time of Tortall's need, it was found once more."

Darkh considers this for a moment, then - without warning - throws the fireball straight at her.

"Iris!" Joe and Wally both shout, panic evident in their voices - unnecessary panic, since Mick takes half a step to the side and takes the fireball dead on.

His clothing isn't even singed.

Mick's grin, as he pulls out his own crossbow, is particularly gleeful.

Len sighs a little to himself. Years of telling Mick he has to be careful when he uses that damn heat crossbow, all now useless because Mick's discovered that he's apparently _fireproof_ now. He definitely wasn’t before – that new skill is no doubt some magic mumble-mumble nonsense about coming of age and accepting his heritage or some rot. Mick'll be intolerable about it, too, Len just knows it.

"Merlyn!" Eobard shouts from where he's chasing Barry. "Don't just stand there! _Do something_!"

Merlyn grins. "My knights! The time is at hand!"

"For Tortall!" Cisco shouts, drawing his own sword. Caitlin and the other knights echo the call, and both sides charge each other, the nobles that had filled the room before wisely fleeing to the corners where the likelihood of getting skewered is lower, those with knighthoods grabbing whatever weapon they can manage to lay their hands on and join the fray on whatever side they prefer. 

The majority side with their rightful ruler - and the Dominion Jewel - but far too many take up arms against.

Worse, the mess will make it even more difficult to help Barry - or even to keep an eye on him.

But Len's always been good at crowds.

Len takes careful aim and fires.

He hits Eobard right in the heels, forcing him to stagger and slow down.

"Use the sword," Len calls to Barry, who nods and draws Lightning.

"What use is a sword against a speedster of superior ability?" Eobard scoffs.

Barry grins and runs.

Eobard chases, only to run straight into the lightning bolt Barry casts from the point of his sword.

"One of the ancient Conté swords," Len hears Merlyn say, his voice just as greedy as Darkh's had been. "Just as predicted."

Predicted?

_Speedster Gift_.

Len researched all the writings on that form of Gift once he realized that that was what Barry had - in between dealing with Sickness related crises, of course - and he's seen a few references to speedsters being able to use their Gift to see the future.

Damnit, no wonder they weren't worried - they predicted this battle. Everything that Len planned, they knew - the Dominion Jewel, Lightning, the mob, everything.

In fact, even as he's thinking it, more of Merlyn's knights pour through the doors, cutting off Cisco and Caitlin's unit, aiming for the king.

Len's eyes narrow.

Well, that just won't do.

He holsters his cold crossbow and looks around the room to see what, if anything, he can change. Something unplanned. Something different than expected. 

His eyes light upon the basket of dolls Barry so carelessly dropped - useless, now that its victims had seen the dolls, the spell rebounding back harmlessly against their knowledge of reality.

Len grins.

Not _quite_ useless.

After all, in their arrogance, the casters haven't bothered to cut off the spell working.

He reaches down for Eobard's doll - the largest one in the basket, the focal point - and picks it up, looking for Eobard in the crowd.

It takes a second, but then Len sees him - standing in front of Nora of Allen, his hand vibrating fast enough to split wood, laughing at Barry's horrified expression as his mother's sword is easily knocked aside and Eobard steps forward, murder clearly on his mind. 

No time to lose, then.

"Hey, speedster!" Len shouts, somehow making himself heard over the noise. "Eobard!"

Eobard turns to glance at Len, sneer fixed firmly on his face. He doesn't think Len's a threat - not like they obviously think Iris and Mick are, not like they think Barry is, not even like they think Cisco and Caitlin are. 

After all, Len's just a thief. He’s not a speedster or a demi-god or a princess or even a knight. 

Len smirks. The only good thing about being underestimated was showing people just how very wrong they are. 

He holds up the doll. "Say hello to the Black God for me."

Eobard's eyes go wide. "No!" he shouts, and tries to run towards Len, but Barry's right there, grabbing him around the waist in a tackle, keeping him back.

Len snaps the doll in two.


	8. Finale

Barry’s not sure what he’s expecting to happen.

He releases Eobard and takes a few steps back – all he knows is that Eobard cast a great working, and when those rebound against their casters, it’s never pretty. 

There’s a tremor through the whole room. At first Barry thinks it’s an earthquake, some unexpected result of the spell rebounding, but it’s not that. It’s a twisting feeling, everywhere, like reality itself has bent over itself.

The entire room shudders, knights dropping their swords to hold onto their ears in an attempt to retain their balance in the sickening twist of nausea.

Barry doesn’t know what’s happening, but he can only hope it ends –

A tall figure, hooded all in black, appears.

Barry’s shoulders relax immediately, the nausea disappearing as the tension in the room pops like a balloon. He knows, intellectually, that this is a God manifesting upon this earth, that this is not just any god, but the Black God, the god of _death_ , and that should logically be mind-numbingly terrifying, but –

The Black God’s lands are known as the Peaceful Lands for a reason.

The feeling of the Black God’s presence isn’t one of fear or revulsion, but of the final peace, welcoming and comforting.

Everyone in the room is calmed.

And the Black God reaches forth his hands to Eobard.

“No!” Eobard shouts. “I’m not done yet!”

And he begins to run away, lightning crackling around him, dashing around the room to build up speed.

At first Barry can’t figure out what Eobard thinks he's doing - God! of! Death! Right! There! - but then he sees Eobard move faster, and faster, and _faster_ , and in his trail Barry can see both the future and the past. 

Goddess, speedsters can move through time itself?!

That must be what he’s trying now. If speedsters really can move through time, then that’s what Eobard is doing – not a visit to the future, no, but an escape from the past. 

He’s trying to outrun his own fate.

With a final burst of lightning, Eobard finally shoots off out the door, fading into the distance almost instantly, the lightning behind him the only trace of his presence. 

The Black God sighs and nods solemnly.

And then he points in the direction that Eobard has gone.

By his side, another figure appears: also dressed all in black, patterned the same as Eobard’s own clothing. The figure bears Eobard’s own face, but horribly decayed, rotting away.

Eobard’s death, manifested.

And that Death begins to run, casting off blue sparks instead of red, and it’s hot on Eobard’s trail.

Somehow, Barry thinks that Eobard’s going to be a bit too busy running to do anything else for the time being.

The Black God’s hood hides his eyes, but his face sweeps the room for a long moment.

The room is silent.

Faithful squeaks and leaps out of Mick’s pocket, scurrying straight over to the Black God, whose shoulders seem almost to shake with laughter for a moment, but the God permits Faithful to clamber up his robes and slip into his own pocket.

With that done, he disappears.

The room is still silent, awed by the presence of the God.

And then, abruptly, the silence is broken.

“That fucker stole my pet rat!” Mick howls. 

Barry buries his head in his hands. 

Len starts laughing.

“Are you _kidding me_?” King Joe says.

“No,” Iris says with a sigh, and does some gesture with the Dominion Jewel that suddenly wraps tendrils of power around all of Merlyn’s knights and Darkh to boot. “That’s just Mick.”

“It really is,” Barry agrees.

He can’t seem to stop smiling for some reason.

God, he loves them so much.

Barry feels a hand on his shoulder.

He turns.

His mom is arching her eyebrows at him. 

"Someone you'd like to introduce me to?" Nora of Allen, who when not bespelled is definitely nobody's fool, asks, smiling. "Maybe - _someones_?"

Barry smiles back nervously.

Oh, boy.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'm never doing that again," Barry announces.

"That's good," Len drawls. "Since I hear the Chamber of the Ordeal's really a one-time punch ticket."

Barry shoves at him lightly. "Be quiet, you. I'll have you know that I'm a _proper_ knight now."

"So are Iris, Cisco and Caitlin," Mick says from where he's curled along Barry's other side. "That's much scarier."

"Do you at least get some time off to celebrate?" Len asks.

"Sleeping all day yesterday _was_ my time off," Barry says, shaking his head. "We've gotten reports of Eobard making trouble in the countryside while fleeing his fate - remind me never to do that, will you? What a waste of the speedster Gift. Anyway, I've been assigned to hunt him down, being as I'm probably the only person who can catch him."

"I'll be sure to mention it," Len replies dryly. "Go, kick his his ass, and then come home to us, Sir Alanna the Second."

"Oh, not that again -"

“I’m your boyfriend. I get teasing rights into infinity.”

"Fine," Barry grumbles. "But no more big adventures, okay? I want some time to rest."

"Don't worry," Mick says lazily. "Per legend, it's my turn to have a big adventure next."

"That's not better!"

"Relax," Mick tells Barry. "I'll have Len fix it."

"Hey!" Len protests, but his two lovers, both laughing, quiet him with kisses.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I told you so," the Trickster told the Goddess and the Hag, smirking smugly as he gazes down at the happy trio.

The two goddesses looked at each other and roll their eyes.

"Now," the Trickster continued, "about the terms of our wager..."


End file.
